


Hands

by Novileigh



Series: Growing [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gore, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 63,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novileigh/pseuds/Novileigh
Summary: Snapshots of an ever-evolving relationship between two soft boys who have seen some shit. Pre-slash to slash. Partly movie canon, partly book, partly miniseries.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in nearly 10 years, kind of shocked that this is what came out. 
> 
> Chapter 1 is almost immediately post-movie, with book/miniseries references.

Bill watches Stan more, since what happened in the sewers. He knows they’re all shaken up, and rightly so, but if anyone took it as badly as Stan did, they didn’t tell him. Beverly, maybe, but she was gone, blissfully out of this town and it’s sewers, safe from the memories in Portland. Eddie, maybe, but he’d grown a permanent Trashmouthed shadow since they got out. Mike and Ben were shaken up, sure, but It hadn’t gotten them alone. Hadn’t made them float, hadn’t bitten them. Hadn’t shown them Its dead lights. 

 

 _‘I wanted to be there.’_ Stan’s voice echoes in his memories, the admission he’d given only to Bill. To make him feel guilty? To ask for help? Bill doesn’t know, but he finds himself focusing on Stan’s wrists whenever he can. Sneaking peeks when Stan is reading or writing, sometimes multiple times a class, just to make absolutely sure that he hadn’t hurt himself. _‘I’m not sure whether to cut my palm or my wrists.’_ He doesn’t know what he thinks he’d do if Stan actually went through with it, but it becomes obsessive for him, checking, watching, making **sure** that Stan is okay. Maybe he feels responsible for dragging Stan down into the sewers to begin with. Maybe he’s just scared of losing another brother. Either way, all his mind can focus on is making sure that Stan doesn’t lose himself in what happened. He owes him that.

 

*

Stan is in the Barrens near the entrance to the sewer, head tilted down, feet splashing idly in the water, chinos rolled up to his knees to keep from getting messy. Bill feels himself walking over without realizing it, panic twisting in his gut though he isn’t sure why, voice shaking even beyond his stutter.

“S-st-stan? Why a-are you here?” Stan wouldn’t BE here, not on purpose and definitely not alone, and the wrongness of this grips him deeper. He sucks in a sharp breath when Stan finally looks up at him, hundreds of tiny bloody points springing up on Stan’s face, his eyes blank and empty. He wants to run, but his feet won’t move. Paralyzed. 

“I never left, Billy.” Stan’s voice says, emptier than he’s ever heard it, sickeningly so. The blood from his forehead trickles into his eyes. “You left me here. You LEFT me, Bill. I never made it out of the dead lights. You made me go in, you left me there alone, and you didn’t come back for me for so long.” A sickly smile appears on Stan’s face, Georgie’s words, Georgie’s VOICE, falling from Stan’s lips. “What took you so long?” Bill tries to stutter out a name at the creature, whether Stan’s or George’s he’s not sure, but it disappears before his eyes. Moments later, he hears a horrified scream coming from the open sewer pipe next to where the creature had been, a hand shooting out from the pipe. Stan, reaching for him, shrieking high and loud for his help. He considers that this might not be Stan again, that he should run, but then he hears it in his mind again - Stan wailing at them, sobbing that they’d left him to die. He was the one who brought Stan to the sewer to begin with. He couldn’t leave him in there now.

He reaches for the hands, grabs them in his own, but the woman with the crooked face is there, holding Stan’s waist, biting at his bared back like a sandworm. Bill squeezes Stan’s hands tighter, trying to pull, trying to dislodge the boy from the creature’s hungry mouth. Stan’s sleeves pull up, and his wrists make it into the light of day, a long, thin scab on each. The words echo in his mind, Stan’s soft, disembodied voice contrasting with his screams. _‘I’m not sure whether to cut my palm or my wrists.’_ He clings tighter to Stan’s hands, and the scabs pull apart, wrists gaping into giant, dripping wounds, the creature on his back laughing, the sight almost making Bill lose his grip. He starts to cry as he pulls, the wounds getting bigger, Stan’s wristbones and veins visible from the outside. The creature gives one vicious pull and Stan’s body is dragged violently back into the standpipe, the flesh of his hands peeling from the bone, clutched tightly in Bill’s fists. With a scream he falls forward into the mud, hits his head, and wakes up from his nightmare, panting and sweating, head jerking around with panic. It takes him a few too many minutes to realize that he’d been dreaming, remember that they had beaten It, and he lets out a relieved sigh, eyes closing, catching his breath, trying to slow his racing heart.

He wants to sleep, to brush it off like it hadn’t happened, but Stan’s words rush through his head again - _‘I looked into Its deadlights, and I wanted to be there.’ ‘I’m not sure whether to cut my palm or my wrists.’_ He’s standing before he can think twice about it, opening his window and quickly climbing out, careful not to slip off of the roof, hopping down into the grass as soon as he’s low enough. He grabs his bike, hops on, and pedals toward the Uris’ house, not thinking even slightly about how it would look to show up shoeless in the middle of the night, or how dangerous it was to be out alone this late into the night. ‘Nothing as dangerous as I’ve already been through,’ Bill thinks as he hops off his bike, leaving it laying on its side next to Stan’s window. He raps on it quickly, and the light snaps on in the room dizzyingly fast. Seconds later, the window is unlocked and pulled open, a nail gun pointed at Bill’s head, Stan’s hands shaking so badly while holding it that it was more likely that he’d accidentally shoot off his own foot than accurately protect himself from an attacker. Bill gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, though his heart is still pounding. Stan squints at him through scared but still sleep-blurred eyes.

“Bill? What are you doing here? It’s past midnight.” Stan’s hands have relaxed on the weapon, but he hasn’t lowered it. Bill wishes he would before he accidentally hurts one of them.

“I h-h-had a n-night…” Bill doesn’t get the rest of the word “nightmare” out before Stan sets the weapon on the ground next to the bed, holding out both of his hands to help Bill into the window, the suspicion and fear on his face fading to something far softer. Understanding. Bill almost flinches when the hands are held out to him, a flash of the nightmare hitting him again, but he takes them immediately, lets Stan help him in, squeezes Stan’s palm a little too hard when he lets go with one hand to close and latch the window again. He feels the scab of Stan’s promissory scar rip open against his palm, a light trickle of blood smashing between their hands though he still refuses to let go, unable to now, needing this comfort. Stan tugs Bill’s body gently to the bed, and both boys sit down, Bill immediately reaching for Stan’s other hand again, linking their fingers, taking a shaky breath.

“Want to talk about it?” Stan’s words are cursory, polite, but the look on his face is almost apprehensive. He doesn’t want to talk about It, doesn’t want to hear anyone else talk about It, but he’d try, for Bill. Bill knows he would, but he can’t put him through any more, especially considering what the dream was. He shakes his head no, giving Stan’s hands another slow squeeze.

“No. C-can I just st-stay here?” Bill’s voice is almost a plea, and Stan nods in return, quiet and accepting, fingers remaining intertwined with Bill’s. They stay like that for almost an hour, silently touching, before Stan’s eyes begin to droop, head tilting down slightly. WIthin ten minutes, his face is leaned awkwardly on Bill’s bicep, asleep, huffing warm air toward Bill’s armpit. Bill’s thumbs trail down slowly over Stan’s wrists finally, deep relief coursing through him as he feels the fragile, unbroken skin beneath his fingers, the light thrumming beat of Stan’s pulse against his skin, strong and steady and ALIVE. He breathes deeply against Stan’s hair, and finally allows his own eyes to drift closed.


	2. Two

It’s easy for the group to see Bill as their fearless leader, after what happened. They all may have saved the day, faced their fears together, but no one could argue that Bill hadn’t had the hardest task of all of them. It was almost startling how much he’d grown since leaving the sewers - he walked taller, stuttered less. He’d saved the town, gotten the girl, and gained the admiration of all of the losers - even Richie, who agreed with grudging respect that Bill should be their leader. 

Stan felt like a mess compared to him. Scarred, scared of everything, barely holding it together. Barely survived the sewers, barely saved himself, barely surviving now. Barely Jewish, barely in control of his own mind. Barely able to handle talking about It, but completely wrecked by acting like everything’s okay, listening to Richie and Eddie bicker about Mrs. Kaspbrak’s VD or how Ben got another postcard from Beverly in Portland. He loves them all, but he can’t help but envy how easily they’re getting over this. Even Eddie, now that his cast is off and he’s once again fully equipped to fight off Richie’s noogies. His battle scar had healed, and he supposes Eddie had too.

He rubs a hand across the series of bumps on his jawline, bite marks faded into tiny pinprick scars now though he still is as aware of them as he was the moment they happened. He continues on toward Bill’s house, walking but barely seeing, sighing in annoyance up at the sky as it starts to rain, wincing as the droplets of water hit his perfectly clean polo and corduroys. He knocks at Bill’s door to get his attention, wanting to get to school before it really started to pour. Bill walks out a minute later with a small smile, opening an umbrella and pressing close to him, holding the shield over both of them, shoulders bumping comfortably.

“Thanks.” Stan says quietly, feeling the most comfortable he’d been in hours. Though he’s not entirely sure why, he thinks it has something to do with the Hero aura around Bill, him no more immune to it than anyone else in the Losers Club was. Fuck, if he chose to, he could probably move on by now, become a regular student, maybe even a popular one, if he got rid of the last of that stutter. He knew Bill wouldn’t leave them, though. Not even if he could.

“Anytime.” Bill responds with a small grin, shifting his backpack so it would stop thumping against Stan’s leg. “Thank me by f-filling me in on the reading?” Stan would lecture anyone else for not doing the reading themselves, but he can’t with Bill. Never with Bill.

“All right. The Lord of the Flies starts with a plane crash-” Stan is cut off by the sound of the umbrella cluttering to the ground, the feel of heavy rain pelting onto his shoulders. He’s annoyed for a moment, cutting a look at Bill, but his eyes widen when he sees the misery on Bill’s crumbling face, his own eyes looking toward what Bill is looking at. He freezes. A child, about six, in a yellow rain parka and galoshes, kicking around in the water on the street as her mother leads her down the street toward the elementary school. Stan forgets about the rain, knocks his knuckles gently against Bill’s. When Bill doesn’t respond, he wraps his fingers around Bill’s and tugs him off of the street, into the dense mass of trees nearby. Once the child is out of their view, Bill lets out a sob, wrapping his arms around Stan’s waist and burying his face in Stan’s shirt, body shaking as he cries. Stan feels the tears and snot sinking into his shirt and tenses up, disgusted, but forces himself not to pull away, wrapping his own arms around Bill, hugging him tightly, squeezing his body close. Bill wheezes against his chest, teeth chattering, stutter more pronounced than he’d ever heard it.

“I-I c-c-coul-couldn’t sa-save G-g-georgie.” Bill huffs into his chest, nails digging so hard into the back of Stan’s shirt that it pills the fabric. “F-FUCK! H-he-he’s st-still g-gone a-af-after every-thing, I…” Stan strokes his hand up and down Bill’s back, swiping the rainwater from Bill’s hair, his emotions fighting his OCD for control. “I f-fa-failed him. I c-can’t do i-it ag-again, ca-can’t lose an-anyone else, I-I…” 

Stan feels a cold stabbing of guilt in his gut at Bill’s words, and it hurts more than the fear had, more than the hopelessness that had made him want to die in the first place. If he went through with it, Bill would blame himself for everything - for making him go down into the sewer, for letting him get separated from them. For not telling anyone his secret. He’d carry it the same way he carried guilt about giving Georgie the paper boat, knowing that he couldn’t have known what would happen but still hating himself for causing it. Seeing Bill break makes him understand - Bill doesn’t have it perfectly together. None of them do. Bill just doesn’t have anyone to go to that can handle the ugly parts of what he’s feeling without getting more scared than they already are. Stan doesn’t think he’s capable of being any more scared. Bill hiccups in his arms, and Stan softly shushes him, chin pressing to the top of Bill’s head, voice calmer than he feels.

“It’s all right. You aren’t, you won’t. You killed the sick fuck, you saved everyone. Thousands of other Georgies. He’d be proud.” Stan’s words don’t make Bill cry any less, and they stand there in the forest for an uncomfortable amount of time, Stan rigid and unrelaxed, Bill clutching to Stan’s chest as his crying fades to shaken breathing, before finally his grief becomes under control again. He pulls back, looking at Stan with red-rimmed eyes, face slick and sticky, the indent of a shirt button on one of his cheeks. He looks like he’s about to apologize, and Stan can’t let him do that, taking a deep, stabilizing breath before raising one hand to wipe the tears from Bill’s cheeks, trying his hardest not to think about the bodily fluids now contaminating his hand and shirt though the knowledge makes his gut churn with nausea. He speaks as honestly as he can, trying as hard as he can to break through the emptiness he’d been dancing with since that night in the sewers had happened. “You don’t.... You don’t have to be strong all of the time. Not with me.” 

Bill doesn’t try to apologize again, just nods, and Stan steps back, checks his watch, sees that they’re late for school. He spares one disgusted look down at his soiled shirt, and another at Bill’s puffy red face, then gives him a small smile, hoping he looks as empathetic as he suddenly feels though he isn’t sure how to tell. Bill’s answering smile is small, but not forced, and Stan knows he got it right. He raps the back of his knuckles against Bill’s, and this time Bill immediately opens his hand, links their fingers together easily, his thumb brushing the skin at Stan’s wrist. Stan gives him a gentle tug in a direction opposite the way they’d come.

“We missed the first bell and we’re both disgusting. Come on to my house, I’ll make you soup or something.” Stan leads, and for the first time since the clown was defeated, Bill follows.


	3. Three

It takes Bill over a full year after the sewers before he’s comfortable enough to go into Georgie’s room again. He’d stuffed the shattered remains of Georgie’s Lego turtle into a desk drawer in his room, but even that hadn’t been opened since the day he put it there, nervous that even the slightest reminder of Georgie would make him start seeing Georgie again. He half expected that, if he opened Georgie’s bedroom door, he’d be sitting there on his bed in his soaked rain parka, gleefully kicking his legs in the air as he made his paper boat fly all around him, one arm missing and a bullet hole through his forehead. Just the thought makes him sick enough to avert his eyes when passing by Georgie’s bedroom door, avoid looking at any family photos on the walls, sure that the photos would be watching him, paranoid. He knew he was going crazy.

He hadn’t expected his parents to notice, though, and he most certainly hadn’t expected that their reaction would be to clean George’s things out of his room. When he gets home to see a yard sale just wrapping up, he quickly runs upstairs, eyes burning with tears, already knowing what he’ll find there, having seen the same from many neighbors over the summer. He swings open the door to Georgie’s bedroom and feels something within him break, shoulders slumping. Plain white walls, clean floors. Even the bed is gone, replaced by a large desk in the corner. He doesn’t see Georgie there like he thinks he will, but it’s just as jarring for the room to lack him, to have erased him so completely from this space that it was as if he’d never been there at all. 

Bill trudges back to his room slowly, as if in a daze, and finally opens the drawer where he’d thrown the remains of the Lego turtle all those months ago, stroking the pieces with shaking hands. _This is all I have left of my brother_ , he realizes, with a sick feeling. _They erased him._ It was just like the missing posters. A poster went up, a family grieved, but then another poster covered that one. And another. And another. After a while, the neighborhood forgets which families had “missing” kids at all. Bill caresses the crashed pieces of Lego for one last moment before reaching for his wall phone, dialing the number of the only person he knew he could count on for this. When he hears the click of the phone being answered, he finally allows the tears to fall.

*

When Stan arrives, Bill is sitting cross legged on the floor surrounded by messily organized stacks of Lego. Bill knows he’s a mess, knows he’s still crying slowly, the tears dripping like a faucet, automatic and slow. When Stan sits down next to him he allows himself to be pulled into an awkward hug, Stan’s elbow poking uncomfortably into the dip between his shoulderblades though he doesn’t care, sinking into the comfort he’s being given. Bill wipes his face on his sleeve, sniffles, then motions to the Legos.

“I c-can’t figure out.” Bill snuffles again, and Stan awkwardly rubs his back. “I broke it a-and I can’t fix it.” Stan nods, understanding, then looks over at the Lego pieces himself.

 

“I remember that turtle too. We can fix it together.” Stan pulls a small tube and brush from the pocket of his khakis, showing it to Bill. “The guy at the craft store said they use this for model ships. When we figure out which way the pieces go, we can glue it. Make sure it can’t break again.” Bill doesn’t think Stan meant that as a metaphor, but it still makes him feel warm. He stays pressed to Stan’s side for a long while, long enough for even Stan to relax into the hug, his arm now curled comfortably around Bill’s shoulders. The next time Bill breathes, he’s almost surprised to find that he’s stopped crying. He pulls back and gives Stan a sheepish smile, about to apologize, but Stan waves it off without a word, looking somewhat flustered himself. Neither knows what to say, so neither of them talk for a while, Bill sketching a picture of what he’d remembered the turtle looking like while Stan carefully takes apart the few pieces that had managed to survive the drop the year before, studiously cataloging them in order so they’d know where to replace them at. Stan breaks the silence as they begin to try and rebuild.

“Remember a few years ago when we took Georgie to the zoo and Richie convinced him that he was half monkey?” Bill’s laugh is shaky, but real.

“A-and Georgie decided to m-move to the zoo to live w-with his people? I remember.” Bill picks up a piece of Lego and fits it into the piece in Stan’s hand, the structure slowly building between them, careful notes being taken of what piece goes where. They work slowly as they tell stories, memories, refusing to forget the boy that had been almost as much a brother to Stan as he had been to Bill. 

When they finish building and disassemble the perfected turtle to be glued, Bill tears up again, leaning silently against Stan’s shoulder. Stan lets him, tilting his head gently to rest his cheek on Bill’s scalp for a moment before opening the model glue and grabbing his paintbrush. Neither boy speaks after that, Bill silently watching as Stan slowly paints the ridges of a Lego with glue before fitting the next piece against it, holding them together until they’re solid, mindful not to let any glue seep out of the cracks between pieces. Bill watches the turtle take shape, slow but steady, is almost hypnotized by the sight of Stan’s compulsively careful movements, Stan’s near-reverence for this once again making him sure he’d called the right person to help him. 

When the turtle is once again whole, Bill can fully breathe again. He moves his hand to rest on Stan’s, squeezing gently, helping him hold the last piece in place, fingers intertwining with Stan’s on the back of the turtle’s plastic shell.

“Th-thank you.” It’s not enough, not for how Bill feels in this moment, but Bill doesn’t know if anything could be enough. Stan makes a noncommittal sound, setting the turtle down on the place where their thighs press together, his own head tilting to rest on Bill’s, voice exhausted.

“Thank me by going to sleep, Billy.” Bill tilts his head up, lets Stan’s head sink onto his shoulder, tucks his chin against Stan’s soft, curly hair. When he’s completely sure Stan is sleeping, he presses a gentle, grateful kiss to the top of Stan’s head and closes his own eyes.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in peace, Betty Ripsom.

Stan wonders if this is what happened to all of the adults in town. If this is how The Forgetting started. He and Bill are walking the long way around town again, hands pressed together, companionable silence around them. Bill had heard that there was a birthday party at the park between Stan’s house and the arcade where they were meeting the others, and had wordlessly dragged Stan in the opposite direction, taking the long way to avoid making him see the balloons the kids were chasing or hear the joyful circus music playing. He wonders how long he’d have to avoid seeing it before he no longer could, before he’s standing in a room dripping with blood and viscera like Beverly’s bathroom had been and sees nothing. A quiet part of him welcomes that, wishes for the ability to not see it, remember It, to wake up one morning living a beautiful lie. The other part violently revolts at the idea of walking into a room, pissing into a toilet filled with blood, and washing his hands in that viscera without even noticing. 

His fingers link with Bill’s gently, and Bill lets them, giving Stan’s hand a wordless squeeze, trying to comfort without knowing exactly what for, always supportive. Stan knows that when they start Forgetting, this will end. The friendship between The Losers Club will fracture in ways that could be repaired, in time, but probably never will be. He imagines Eddie’s memories rearranging themselves to protect his mind, vaguely remembering breaking his arm because Bill wanted to play in the crackhead house, maybe deciding that Richie had broken it rather than popping the bone back into its socket. He imagines that, sooner or later, Beverly will get sick of writing the words “Derry, Maine” on postcards and reliving the memories, so she’ll stop writing them altogether. Will Mike and Ben stop spending time with them if they forget why they became friends to begin with, what bonded them all? A flash of memory runs through his mind, and sucks in a breath, eyes closing for a moment. 

_Will we even remember Georgie?_

Bill would remember longest, he thinks, but slowly, they’d all start to forget, either how Georgie had died, or maybe that he was even born. He remembers seeing a woman at the market last weekend, chatting amiably with the checkout girl about how excited she was to have her first little girl. He remembers that woman at their school the day before summer, THAT summer, crying to the detective there with her about her missing daughter. Remembers a girl’s name and face on a missing poster, but can’t figure out what she looked like, dozens of blurry names and faces blending together as he tries. He thinks he remembers one dirty shoe. 

“Hey Bill? You remember that girl that went missing right before school was out last year?” Bill tenses a little, and Stan regrets asking immediately, but he already has, so he simply plows on. “The one who’s shoe you found in the standpipe. What was her name?” He looks over at Bill, watches Bill’s face get serious, watches him chew his bottom lip as he fights for clarity. The realization of the unsaid question he’d been asked dawns in his eyes, and he looks miserable for a moment before determination hits his eyes.

“B-Bonnie.” Bill sounds almost TOO sure, but Stan nods his head anyway, the answer fitting the blank space in his mind, a vague shadow of a white brunette girl fitting with the name. He feels soothed by the memory, squeezes Bill’s hand, but his shoulders slump when another thought crosses his mind unbidden. The two of them, a year into the future, walking down this road with their fingers linked. Him asking Bill who they used to know who wore a yellow parka, and Bill’s face getting pensive, having to think about it for a moment before recalling the answer. Then he thinks of Bill’s misery as, one by one, the Losers all question who he’s talking about when he says the name Georgie, until Bill himself forgets. He imagines the loneliness and isolation, feeling like you’re crazy for knowing something that no one else knows, losing the only support you have. He sighs, squeezes Bill’s hand, and turns them back around in the other direction. Bill gives him a quizzical look, and Stan shrugs.

“Gotta face it sometime, right? Walk past a party with me?” Bill gives him a small but genuine smile, bumping their shoulders gently together.

“Y-yeah. And we don’t h-have to go too c-close.” They walk by the party slowly, eyes taking in the balloons, the laughing children, the soccer moms pouring punch from a bowl with shining ladles. Stan isn’t comfortable, and he squeezes Bill’s hand way too tightly, giving away his fear. Bill takes it in stride, strokes Stan’s wristbone with his thumb, leaning close to chatter about something that had happened during a baseball game the night before, his voice draining the tension from Stan’s shoulders, soothing him without even having to talk about it. He can’t help but smile, turning his head and pressing his lips to Bill’s shoulder, not kissing it, just resting on the bone for a moment before turning his head back to the street ahead, making a silent promise in his mind.

_If you can’t forget, I won’t let myself forget either._


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a handful of slurs about religions, races, sexualities, and people. Hopefully in a period appropriate but respectful way, but be warned.

Bill can’t pinpoint when the change happened. He’s sitting on his bed after a long day of bird watching with Stan, sketching a fat yellow bird, a postcard tucked beneath his bowed knee. _Not just “a bird”. A finch._ A dismissive voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Stan corrects him, and he smiles, thinking over the day they’d spent together.

 

_Stan's standing in the middle of a field, clutching his bird watching manual to his chest, head tilted back to stare toward one of the trees in the distance, a pair of binoculars held to his eyes. For once, when Bill touches his shoulder, he’s too comfortable to flinch away._

_“You have to see this! Look.” Stan guides Bill’s head a little to face the proper tree, then holds the binoculars to Bill’s face, letting him see the distant bird. Bill feels himself getting flustered at the touch, but doesn't understand why._

_“I-i-its a y-ye-yellow b-bird.” Bill knows he’s stuttering more than usual, wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his thighs. Stan pulls the binoculars away, giving Bill a look that's somewhere between derisive and amused, his face still lit up. He takes the binoculars back up to his own eyes._

_“It's a goldfinch, Billy. Birds have names. I've just never seen one around here before!” Stan stares in awe up at the trees, and Bill stares similarly at Stan's face. “Isn't it beautiful?”_

 

Bill hadn’t cared much about the birds - he can’t tell much difference between them beyond color and size - but it’s Stan’s favorite activity. And Bill is always willing to spend a boring afternoon in the park if it means getting to see Stan be this... fifteen. Happy and carefree, unguarded, like the events of two summers ago had never happened. _Beautiful_ , his mind supplies, and his pencil stutters on the page. He feels a sudden, irrational panic, something in him pushing him to think about a girl instead, and reaches guiltily down to tug Beverly’s postcard out from beneath his knee. He realizes with a start that he can’t remember her face.

He remembers Beverly's name, remembers that they'd been friends. Remembers a time that he'd counted on her above anyone else, when he'd needed most not to be alone. When was the last time he'd done that? Had he sent her even one letter since she'd been gone that went any deeper than what you’d write in a friend’s yearbook the last day of school? More than ‘Hey, Bev! Hope you’re having a great summer! Stay cool!’ He can't remember, and it makes him feel instantly guilty. They’d never officially dated, but realizing he’d pulled away from her first makes his closeness with Stan feel vaguely like infidelity. 

He grabs an old sketchbook from his bookshelf and looks through his old drawings of her, sees her large curls, bright eyes, and soft features, but everything gets hazy again when he tries to imagine her in the flesh. He remembers knowing her before the clown, but not ever really noticing her. Something had made her stand out to him that summer, and no matter how hard he thinks, he can't remember what. He can't remember the last time he'd drawn her, the last time he'd thought about her without her having sent him a postcard first. He pictures Ben’s glee every time a new postcard arrives, then looks guiltily at the still unanswered card sitting on the edge of his bed. He wonders when he’d become ambivalent to receiving them, though part of him already knows.

That thought makes his mind drift back toward Stan, back into confusion. He knows how he’s supposed to feel about this - dirty, ashamed, sick. And he does feel queasy about it, thinking of what would happen if anyone found out about his thoughts. He doubts his own parents would accept it, and Rabbi Uris definitely wouldn’t. Would the other Losers hate him for making the rumors about them seem truer? It was hard enough for someone like Eddie to walk down the hall at school without someone calling him a faggot. Would Bill’s feelings somehow confirm that about all of them, make people think they were all that way? He knows this feeling has been growing for a while but he still feels suddenly exposed, as if one look at him would show everyone his newly discovered secret.

Was he lying to himself when he told himself that he cared for Beverly to begin with? He remembers liking her, feels the emotion again, though it’s almost wistful now, nostalgic. How could he have liked her then if he likes Stan now? 

_So you’re a confused faggot._ Henry Bowers’ voice rings in his mind, and he flinches. But that thought makes him remember the people he’s heard that kind of thing from - Bowers and his gang, random neighbors. The same shitty people in town who turned their heads and looked away when pieces of children’s mangled bodies would come up through the flooded sewer drains. The ones who would be just as happy if the bullies took out all of the faggots and niggers and kikes and whores just so they wouldn’t have to look at them anymore. _Us_ , his brain helpfully supplies, and he nods his head in agreement. Us.

He can’t imagine turning his back on this feeling for the sake of those assholes, though the idea of telling Stan about it still makes him feel slightly nauseous. He’s not ready for that, and he doubts that Stan is, but giving himself permission to imagine it makes him feel stronger.

Could Stan possibly feel the same for him? He knows Stan’s faith is clear about gays, and he knows how much Stan always wants his father to be proud of him. If he could feel the same, would he be able to accept it, or would he pull away from Bill? Throw himself into his Judaism again, like he had after Neibolt, try to convince himself that the feelings torturing him aren’t real? He can’t risk that, not now. Stan needs to be able to count on him, needs to have him to go to when the nightmares come back, and being there for Stan is still the most important thing to him.

Bill sits back down on his bed, letting out a deep breath, putting Bev’s postcard on his nightstand. He promises himself that he’ll write her back later tonight - something deep this time, something real. For now, he grabs his sketchbook and pencil instead, continuing to draw out the golden bird, adding a few tiny tufts of fur near the legs for flourish. It’s a struggle to remember the little details that he was sure Stan would have noticed, but he needs this to be perfect, the picture suddenly feeling like it represents so much more than he’d realized when he’d started. He figures he can give it to Stan at school the next day without making Stan too suspicious. He pictures Stan stammering and blushing a little from the attention before shoving it into the pages of his bird book to fully inspect later. He already knows Stan will tell him all about what the bird signifies, and for once he can’t wait to hear it, wishing for it to be something good. Hopeful.

He’s not fully comfortable with how he feels yet, and he’s not ready to tell Stan, not today. But he imagines a day years into their futures, when Stan pulls out the time-wrinkled picture and Bill can finally tell him that he’d drawn it the day he realized that he truly wanted them to be something more, even if he hadn’t yet been sure what that meant.


	6. Six

Stan doesn’t understand why any of them would want to watch horror movies after what happened that summer. He’d assumed that the debatable thrill of watching people barely survive being chased by monsters would’ve faded for the others when this could’ve easily been any of them - hell, HAD been all of them, at one time or another. All Stan wants to do is move on from that, and yet he’s sitting under a blanket on the corner of Bill’s couch, eyes frozen open in morbid fear as he watches Freddy Krueger drag his claws along the crumbling walls, taunting his victim. He spares a quick glance around the room, sees Mike on the floor sleeping, Ben near his feet, writing in a notebook, not even paying attention to the movie. Sees Richie on the other couch, alternating between shoving giant handfuls of popcorn into his own mouth and tossing pieces at Eddie, giving him fake-innocent looks each time Eddie glares. His eyes flicker back to the TV, and he almost winces at the sight of the teenager on the screen being mutilated, one hand unconsciously flying to his own face, scratching at one of the scars on his jaw, squirming in his seat. His stomach churns at the sight of a young man being dragged into a bed, his blood spraying the walls and ceiling of his room, looking almost indistinguishable from how Bev’s bathroom had looked, soaked with death. Part of him wonders if the others are ignoring the comparison, or if they just don’t see it. He suddenly feels painfully alone.

He’s so engrossed in his displeasure with the movie that the light thunk on the couch next to him startles him, his eyes quickly darting over as though he expects to see a monster next to him, though whether he’s expecting Freddy or Pennywise, he can’t be too sure. He meets Bill’s small, friendly smile instead, and the tension immediately drains from his shoulders. He doesn’t even try to protest when Bill tugs his blanket up and moves into his personal space, tucking the blanket around both of them. The back of Bill’s hand rests on Stan’s nearest thigh, palm up, and Stan immediately lowers his own hand to rest on it, fingers fitting together perfectly, as if they’d always done this. Bill’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and Stan feels his heartbeat pick up without realizing why.

“Th-this guy’s a pussy, huh?” Bill asks, voice soft and Stan huffs out a tiny laugh, unconsciously leaning closer. His hands start to get clammy, and he wipes one on his thigh, the other still hesitantly wound with Bill’s, the other boy not seeming to notice anything awry.

“I guess. Just a crispy, pedophile Wolverine.” Stan isn’t sure that’s true, but it makes Bill laugh, so he can’t bring himself to be too annoyed by his inaccuracy.

“I-I’m the best there is at what I d-do. But what I do best isn't v-very nice.” Bill tries his best to mime both Wolverine and Freddy’s voices at the same time, and the blend is even funnier with the slight stutter. Stan laughs very softly, dimples indenting his cheeks. 

“When you put it like that, yeah. He does sound like a pussy.” Bill’s eyes shine softly at Stan’s words, somewhere between affection and pride that Stan hadn’t sunk too deep into his fear this time. That he was improving at least, even if slowly. Stan’s head tilts down comfortably onto Bill’s shoulder, his eyes moving back to the television, watching the screen crooked now, not nearly as frightened with the perspective off like that. After a few long, comfortable moments, Bill lets go of Stan’s hand, shifting a little before Stan can pull back, arm draping comfortably around Stan’s shoulders instead. Stan tenses up at the new touch, not at all prepared for it, taking a deep breath in, body still. Bill’s eyes stay locked on the television, not moving away, but not calling attention to himself either, acting as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to have his arm around Stan’s shoulders. And maybe it is. Most of the people in Stan’s world aren’t this physically affectionate to him, but maybe Bill has decided to be. Maybe he’s just trying to make sure Stan is okay after his scare while still getting to enjoy the movie. And besides… it’s not like this is unpleasant. If pressed, he’d have to admit that he doesn’t hate it. So he forces himself to relax into the touch, breathing deep and slow, mind focusing on adding this near-cuddle to the ever-growing list of Things They Do, willing it to become normal. He’s not used to this at all, and while he enjoys it, it still doesn’t feel like something that’s SUPPOSED to happen, not the natural order of things. Not yet. He’s distracted from the movie, his mind unable to focus on both it and Bill’s arm around him at the same time, but he’s not complaining. He’d much rather think about Bill than a monster movie. 

By the end of the movie, he’s stopped thinking altogether, half asleep on Bill’s couch, the right side of his back pressed to Bill’s left chest, Bill’s arm still around him, fingers curled easily around his bony shoulder, his curls tucked securely beneath Bill’s chin.


	7. Seven

Bill is expecting it to happen sometime, but he’s still sickened the first time he actually hears it. He’s coming to the kitchen for a glass of water, late enough that everyone should be asleep, but the sight of his parents sitting at the table gives him pause. Their heads are bowed close, and they’re talking in hushed tones, clearly not noticing him. 

“He’s not getting any better, Zack.” Bill hears his mother whisper, knows she’s been crying. “His speech therapy is barely working, and he won’t stop with this nonsense about a brother? He’s getting worse and you won’t admit it!” His father’s fist pounds on the table.

“What am I supposed to do about it, Sharon? I’m at work all goddamn day! You’re supposed to be raising the boy right, not letting him turn into some kind of lunatic while I’m out supporting this family!” Bill’s mother lets out another sob, and Bill looks between them, the finality of this hitting him. They’ve finally lost Georgie. They don’t remember him. 

It takes everything in Bill not to stomp into the kitchen and scream at them, beg them to remember. To rip any of the dozens of dusty family photos on the walls and throw them in his parents’ faces, George’s face smiling back from every single one. They’d stopped taking family pictures the year Georgie died, and the idea of his parents walking past these pictures every day and not seeing Georgie in them makes him feel sick.

Instead, Bill tiptoes back to his room. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s going to sleep, not after what he’d heard and not in this fucking house, not now. He pulls on a pair of sneakers and grabs his backpack, then climbs out his window, headed straight for his bike. He vaguely remembers that Rabbi Uris keeps Stan late at the temple on Fridays, and though the idea of going into a synagogue creeps him out for a reason that he can’t quite place, he knows he can’t go to any of his other friends. They’d try to help, sure, but Bill knows that Stan will understand in a way that the others wouldn’t. Stan is the one he trusts most, and Bill knows the pain won’t go away until he’s seen him. 

Bill abandons his bike behind the bush near the door of the temple, whether to prevent thieves or just not get caught sneaking around, he’s not sure. Mrs. Uris has always been nothing but nice to him, but he swears that the Rabbi dislikes him. _Sees something wrong about you. Knows what you want from his son._ An insecure part of him snaps back. Bill ignores it, but still sneaks into the synagogue, making sure that he wasn’t caught breaking in, knowing that he wouldn’t be allowed to see Stan if Rabbi Uris caught him. He follows a side aisle from the main room of the church, walking through a set of hallways, checking through cracked doors, figuring that Stan has to be in one of the lighted rooms.

When he finally finds Stan, his own problems vanish from his mind. Stan is huddled in the fetal position on a desk chair, an open Hebrew bible on the desk before him. His eyes are hyperfocused but terrified, staring at a closed door on the other side of the room, his body shaking. One of his hands is at his temple, scratching furiously at a scar on his forehead, obvious that he’d been doing it for quite some time, a messy cut formed just below his hairline. Bill rushes over before he can stop himself, and the sudden noise and motion almost makes Stan fall off the chair.

“Bill?” Stan’s voice is hoarse, almost a whisper, and his hand struggles against Bill’s when Bill forces it away from his forehead. “She’s here. She’s here, Billy.” Bill stops, his hand going limp in Stan’s.

“S-she?” Stan’s nails dig into Bill’s hand hard enough to cut his palm. He barely notices. “T-The one wh-who..?” Stan nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. His shoulders droop.

“I don’t know.” Stan finally settles on that, and Bill’s tension drops, just a little. “The painting… it’s… She’s still in there.” Bill relaxes fully, understanding now. His arms wrap around Stan’s shoulders, pulling Stan’s face to his torso. Stan sniffles against his tee shirt for a moment, trying to contain himself, but moments later loses himself to almost hysterical sobs. “I can still hear Her, Bill. I can still see Her walking. I can hear Her grinding Her teeth together and waiting for me. Every time I go in there, it… it’s like She’s _smiling_ at me with Her disgusting fucking teeth and _waiting_...” He hiccups softly, and Bill pets his hair, staring at the door, trying to figure out if what Stan is seeing is real. _Would I be able to tell if it was? Or have I forgotten too?_ Bill shakes the thought off, clutches Stan tighter.

“I’m losing it, Billy. I’m going crazy, I can’t handle…” Stan wraps his arms around Bill’s torso, clinging to him, and Bill’s own problem flashes through his mind, his parents’ derisive words echoing in his memory. He kisses the top of Stan’s head, expecting Stan to tense up under the new, foreign affection. He’s even more worried when Stan doesn’t.

“Y-you’re not crazy. Something ha-happened to us. It’s normal t-to still feel it.” He rubs Stan’s back, slow and steady, lets Stan get control of his breathing, his tears. When Stan pulls back, he looks a bit embarrassed at his show of emotion, but his attention turns somberly back to the door. There’s no doubt in Bill’s mind that whatever Stan thinks he’s hearing is just as real to Stan as It had been. Bill’s eyes turn to the small, crackling fireplace in the room, then back to the closed door to Stan’s father’s office. He gives Stan’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Want to t-throw Her in the fireplace?” Stan almost chokes.

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much trouble I’ll get in with my dad when he finds out?” Stan’s obvious worry about the Rabbi’s disapproval upsets Bill more than it always had, and part of him wonders if it’s still because of how mad he is at his own parents. He shakes his head dismissively.

“H-he won’t n-notice. Just trust me?” Stan still looks unsure, and Bill gives the ends of his hair a gentle tug. “I’ve got y-your back. I won’t let an-anything happen to y-you.” The _again_ hangs in the air between them, silent but real, and Bill thinks for a moment that maybe Stan doesn’t believe him. Bill realizes that he’s never meant a promise more in his entire life. He can read the play of emotions on Stan’s face - the _‘You left me last time’_ blending seamlessly with the _‘How can you protect me from something you can’t even see?’_ In the end though, Stan nods, standing on shaking legs, walking slowly to the door. Bill follows closely, letting Stan open it and quickly switch on the light, hearing the boy’s breathing quicken beside him. They both look at the painting next to the door. Bill sees a crappy painting of a bitchy looking flute player, but he knows Stan sees something far more sinister. If She really is here, Bill can’t tell at all. Knowing how possible that is considering what happened a few summers ago makes Bill uncomfortable, but he shakes off the feeling, reminds himself that there’s nothing there. They’d beaten It. It’s dead. _For another 25 years, anyway._ Bill shakes the thought off, puts on a brave face for Stan.

He’s not at all worried about preserving the painting since they’re just destroying it anyway, so he just tugs it up off of the nail and lets it fall facedown on the floor, hoping that not seeing the image will help Stan calm down. He motions for Stan to pick up a corner of the painting, giving Stan a reassuring smile when he balks. 

“L-lets get Her into the f-fire. Stan. Come on. Send Her b-back to hell.” Stan spares a nervous look over his shoulder, and Bill waits. “I-I’m watching y-your back. You’re s-safe.” Stan doesn’t look convinced, his eyes misty, but there’s something determined behind them. Bill leans down, hands near the two corners of the painting nearest him, watches Stan hesitantly do the same. They grab the edges, Stan careful not to let his fingers touch the canvas, obviously concerned that She’ll attack him if they do. Bill hopes it doesn’t happen, knows he won’t forgive himself if he’s wrong about this and inadvertently gets Stan hurt. Bill makes sure not to let the worry show in his eyes though, looking serious and strong, needing Stan to believe he’s safe.

They carry the painting to the fireplace together, unceremoniously tossing it in. Stan immediately scrambles back from the hearth as though he expects the half-burned bitch to come crawling back out. Bill supposes he can’t blame him. He goes to stand with Stan a distance away from the crackling fire, tapping the back of his knuckles against Stan’s, expecting Stan to link their fingers together. To his surprise, Stan’s arms wind up around his shoulders instead, Stan’s face buried in his neck. Stan lets out an almost hysterical laugh against his skin, and his own arms wind around Stan’s body, returning the hug tightly. When Stan turns to face the crackling fire again, he stays close, Bill’s arms still around his waist, Bill’s head fitting on his shoulder. Stan’s smile is almost calm as he watches the canvas curl and wither in the flames, and Bill can’t help but grin too, starting to sing quietly.

“B-bitches r-roasting on an o-open fire…” Stan laughs softly in his arms, unconsciously leaning back against him.

“I’m still Jewish, Bill. Besides, I’ve had enough of things nipping at my nose.” Bill chuckles, and Stan hums a slight approval at the response to his joke. Bill feels a pang of longing in his stomach, sees what this could have been if not for the monster. Wishes it had just been a stolen, romantic moment between himself and Stan by a lightly crackling fire. Stan’s next words bring him back from the fantasy. “Bill? Not that this wasn’t… What it was, but what are you doing here?” Stan turns to face him, pulls back, and the moment is broken. Bill wants to cling to it, but knows it’s gone.

“M-my parents. They f-finally forgot. About Georgie.” Stan’s eyes get sad, and his knuckles rap against Bill’s. Bill immediately takes his hand, squeezes hard. “They sa… they s-said I was crazy. For t-talking about him.” Stan shakes his head, speechless for a moment, though he doesn’t look at all surprised.

“You’re not crazy, Bill.” The words hover between them, and Bill runs his thumb over Stan’s wristbone gently, repeating the words with surprising clarity.

“You’re not crazy, Stan.” Bill barely realizes that he hadn’t stuttered until he sees the way Stan’s eyes soften. Stan bites his lip almost nervously, and Bill’s eyes are drawn to it.

“Sneak in after my dad takes me home? You can stay over. In the morning, we can go to your house and steal all of the pictures with Georgie in them before…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t have to. He looks almost guilty for bringing it up, as though just reminding Bill of what was waiting for him at home would hurt him. It does, but not as badly as it had before. Not when he’s got someone there to help him.

“S-sounds perfect.”


	8. Eight

Three years after the attack, Stan is still disgusted by his own face. He knows that he’s improved for the most part - his tight curls had relaxed some over time, and he’d grown more into his birdlike features, looking angular now instead of just rude. He barely sees any of that when he looks at himself though, his eyes only drawn to the myriad of scars dotting over his skin. Most people in Derry don’t even see them, the product of the clown as invisible to their eyes as the clown itself had been. The few who do insist that they’re freckles, every bit as natural as the smattering across Richie’s nose. Richie himself calls them Battle Scars, same as the bumpy mass of poorly-healed tissue above Mike’s right eye, a fucking medal of achievement for stopping the clown for good. 

No matter what anyone called them though, Stan knew better. They were a badge of his own weakness, his own fear. He had been a thirteen year old boy scared of a stupid flute playing painting, and he hadn’t even had the courage to struggle to get free. His face is a scarlet letter to his failure, his cowardice. He can still feel phantom teeth there, painful but invisible, poking through his skin like hundreds of tiny bee stings, feels his soul screaming in fear and frustration, hears it ringing loudly in his skull though no one around him hears a sound. One day he steals his mother’s foundation, smears it over his face, hoping to cover the marks. He swears he can hear It laughing. 

*

Stan stares down into a puddle as he waits outside Bill’s house, mind blank, staring but barely seeing. The raindrops cascade off of his umbrella into the puddle, distorting it, and for a mad moment he sees his own face change, morphing in the water. He sees the flute player staring back at him from his own body, raindrops hitting Her distorted face, pushing at the flesh like tiny indented scars. His gut clenches, his body feels cold and empty. And alone.

A hand lands on the small of Stan’s back, and he flinches for a moment before seeing the puddle change, Bill’s reflection appearing next to his own, his image seeming to stabilize the whole picture. He sees his own reflection even out next to Bill’s, normal and safe, and he woodenly moves so that he’s holding his umbrella over Bill’s head. His eyes flicker to Bill’s face, a twisted part of him hoping that Bill had seen it too, that he wasn’t the only damaged one, but Bill’s face shows nothing but concern. Stan forces a smile, shaking his head a little, hoping he looks less broken than he feels though he can tell by the wrinkle in Bill’s brow that it’s not working. Bill stares down at the puddle for another long moment, like he’s trying to see whatever Stan sees, but it’s clear when he gives up, arm wrapping more firmly around Stan’s back instead. Then Bill moves, abruptly raises one foot to stomp it down hard in the puddle, making the water splash and spray away. Stan lets out an almost surprised laugh at the sight of Bill defeating a puddle of water for him, then groans a little, burying his face into Bill’s shoulder as Bill leads them away from the curb.

“You just splashed so much disgusting water on me.” Bill laughs softly at Stan’s complaint, knowing it was real but obviously hearing the lack of malice behind it.

“W-we can clean u-up at the Aladdin. Ed-eddie might have ex-extra socks.” Stan’s lips twist with displeasure at the mention of socks at all, his own squishing between his toes unpleasantly, thinking about the sensation making it even worse. He shudders, the motion making his face tilt up, his scar-bumped cheek brushing Bill’s smooth one. He unconsciously flinches away from the touch, suddenly hyperaware that Bill’s arm had still been around him, mind racing, wondering... When Bill grabs Stan’s hand on the umbrella pole and pulls him close again, he feels foolish for considering any other motive. He’s more self conscious of the scars now than he ever has been.

“Wh-what happened? Was i-it the socks th-thi-thing? Your OCD?” Bill looks concerned again. Stan’s nose scrunches.

“It will be if you keep bringing up how fucking _filthy_ both of our socks probably are right now, Bill. Seriously, stop it.” Stan makes a disgusted face, shaking his head. Bill is still looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He knows he has to say something, and he thinks if he tells half of the truth, he can get away with not saying why. “It’s the scars. They’re just… bothering me.”

Bill stops, grips Stan’s hand tighter, makes him stop too. His free hand immediately moves to Stan’s jaw, touching the braille marks scattered over the skin. His eyes are soft, concerned. “Do t-they hurt?” Stan’s heart is beating too fast for this, his hand shakes on the umbrella. He wants to run. 

“Not usually.” That part is almost easy to admit, though he sees guilt in Bill’s eyes at the knowledge that they do hurt sometimes. The next part is harder to say. “I just hate seeing them. You guys are all going to go off and get girlfriends and I’m going to be stuck here alone looking like pinhead without the pins. Disfigured.” Bill’s eyes soften in a way that Stan can’t place, and Bill’s fingers move slowly over Stan’s cheek.

“Th-they look li-like freckles. And... they’re c-cute. E-every o-one sa-says so.” The words come out in a nervous rush, and Stan’s hand tightens on the umbrella, his other shoving deep in his pocket. He’s suddenly very aware of his body, limbs shifting awkwardly, eyes glued to Bill’s face. Bill’s voice is almost shy, but he sounds serious now. “Be-besides, so wh-what if they’re scars? Th-they’d keep people aw-away who aren’t g-good enough for y-you.” Stan lets out a derisive snort.

“Yeah, all of those people out there who aren’t good enough for me.” Stan’s voice sounds mostly sarcastic, but there’s a hint of something more there that he’s trying his hardest to keep caged inside. Something that went beyond flattered, beyond soothed. Something that terrified him.

“Th-there are lots of those. An-anyone who would not be with you be-because of something you can-can’t control isn’t worth your t-time.” Stan knows that Bill is talking about himself too, his stutter, and that’s what makes him meet Bill’s eyes again, the need to protect Bill from others’ comments comfortingly familiar. He clings to it.

“Nobody’s turning you down, Bill. Even people who hate you know how perfect you are.” The compliment feels off to Stan, and he flinches at his own inability to say the right words. Bill seems to understand what he’d meant, though, his grin easy and pleased.

“M-maybe not for a date. But my f-first time will be a m-mess. Can you im-imagine?” Bill’s voice gets almost mockingly deep, his stutter more pronounced though Stan isn’t clear whether it’s an over dramatization or just brought on by laughter. He quotes the only line they’d heard from the grainy porno tape Richie had snuck into one of their sleepovers before they’d rushed to shut it off. “Y-y-yeah, b-baby, th-that’s g-go-good.” Both boys break into laughter at that image, and Bill strokes his thumb over Stan’s dimple. Stan once again becomes painfully aware that Bill is cupping his jaw. Bill’s eyes become earnest, determined, and he opens his mouth to speak, body moving almost imperceptibly closer to Stan’s.

“HEY LOSERS!” A loud, cheerful voice yells out as Richie passes them on his bike. They jump apart like they’d been burned. Stan lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “Last one to the Aladdin buys the tickets for everybody!” Richie turns his bike around, makes a wide circle around Eddie a few feet behind him, almost cackling as he effortlessly takes first place again.

“How is that a fair contest, Trashmouth? They don’t even have bikes!” Eddie yells after Richie, clearly trying to stand up for them. After a moment though, he just sort of shrugs at them and pedals off in the direction Richie had already disappeared in. The silence that hangs between Stan and Bill in their absence is awkward in a way that Stan doesn’t understand, the two just staring at one another for a long, tense moment. Bill is the first to break the silence, taking a deep breath before slinging one arm around Stan again, casual and easy. Stan tenses for a moment before easing into the touch.

“Co-come on. Maybe we c-can still beat Mike.” The two boys begin to walk, side by side, the silence staying though the awkwardness fades. Stan’s mind is racing, but for the first time in a long time, he’s not thinking about It.


	9. Nine, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to take a moment to thank you all for your lovely comments. They warm my chilly little heart!

The first person Bill tells is Beverly. 

He thinks it’s only fair, since she’d been his first almost-girlfriend and all. Besides, she lived farthest away. If she was disgusted with him, they could just stop writing and he’d never have to see her again. _'Not for another 24 years,'_ Bill’s mind suggests, and he quickly shakes the thought off. 

He means to just tell her that he thinks he’s gay, but before he knows it he’s written two full pages, telling her everything. How he’d bonded with Stan, how confused he still is about what he wants, how unsure he is about Stan feeling the same way. He realizes hazily that it’s the first full letter he’s written to her since she left, the two usually just trading stolen postcards.

He’s a little queasy when he actually mails it out, realizing a few hours later that she could tell any of the rest of them through her letters, feeling stupid for not thinking of it before. The next week leaves him paranoid, unsure of who she’d tell and when, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for his friends to turn on him. He tries to hold back the panic, and he fools most of his friends, but he can tell by the suspicious look on Stan’s face that he isn’t buying it. _'He’s an expert at hiding how he’s really feeling, of course he can tell,'_ Bill’s mind supplies, and he tries to avoid Stan’s eyes. 

Stan corners him at the quarry a few days later, holds him back by the arm after the others jump from the rock ledge. His voice is concerned but soft, as though he’s worried that the others might hear them from all the way down there, trying to keep the moment private. “Are you alright, Bill?” Bill can’t bring himself to lie.

“I-I’m waiting for a re-response to the last le-letter I sent Bev. I-it’s kind of im-important.” Bill realises his mistake when Stan pulls back from him. It’s almost imperceptible, but Bill has become adept at reading Stan’s body language, and he notices. He’s about to crack and just spill everything, whether either of them are ready for that or not, but Stan awkwardly pats him on the shoulder from way too far away, his words cutting Bill’s off.

“I’m sure she’ll get back to you soon. She cares about you, she’s not going to leave your… important letter… hanging.” It’s more than obvious what Stan thinks the letter is about, and Bill opens his mouth to protest. His stutter catches on the first word though, and before he can really speak, Stan is diving off the cliff into the water. Bill follows, but by the time he’s resurfaced Stan has invited himself into a game of chicken, sitting on Mike’s shoulders, trying to topple Richie off of Ben’s. Stan is laughing audibly, but the emotion doesn’t reach his eyes. Bill stares for a moment, frustrated and wistful, wanting to go to him, to make this better somehow. After a moment he sighs, paddling over to Eddie instead, splashing water at him, distracting himself from his own mess.

When he gets home, there’s a letter waiting for him from Beverly - a real letter to match his, not simply a postcard. His hands shake as he opens it, fearing the worst, wondering if he’d just ruined his life, if he’d lost everything.

The first words on the page are “I love you”, and Bill cries.

*

The second person Bill tells is Mike. It had been months of letters back and forth with Beverly before he’d had the backbone to do it, but the girl had insisted. _”The gang all love you! They’ll all be fine with it, and we’ll always have your back, Bill.”_ She hadn’t been able to be much help with his Stan situation, citing that she hadn’t seen enough of them together to tell if Stan felt the same, but just knowing that he could talk to her about these feelings without being judged gives him a freedom that he hadn’t known he’d been craving.

He wishes he could say that he’d chosen Mike because of their close friendship, and while that’s partly true, he knows that’s not it. Mike is serious, won’t try to make a joke out of this while he’s still so nervous about it. And Mike knows what it’s like to be the outsider. The homeschool kid, one of the only black people in Derry. He knows better than the others what it’s like to have slurs thrown at him. Bill doesn’t think, after all of that, that Mike would be the kind of person to call him a faggot.

He goes to visit Mike at the farm one day, away from the others. He sits awkwardly on a fence as he watches Mike move bales of hay, both of them completely silent, Mike waiting for Bill to just spit out whatever he’d made the special visit over just to say. Bill wonders vaguely if he should help with the hay, but instead, his words rush out of him. 

“I-I’m gay.” Mike drops the bale he’s carrying, turns to face him. Bill continues, wondering for a paranoid moment if he should’ve chosen to do this in a place with fewer weapons. “I th-think I’m gay.” Mike remains silent for a moment, scrutinizing him before speaking.

“You making a pass at me, Denbrough? Because I don’t swing like that.” Bill’s head shakes immediately in response.

“N-no! I’m ju-just telling the l-losers. S-so I don’t ha-have to hide fr-from my f-friends.” Mike looks at him again, considering, trying to work this out in his mind. After a moment, he claps Bill on the shoulder, a bit harder than he realizes though it’s obviously meant to be a show of support.

“Anybody bugs you about it, they bug all of us.” Mike’s words sound final, and he turns back to his work, misses Bill’s blinding smile. “And don’t say shit like that in front of my granddad. He’ll lynch your ass.”

*

Ben comes next, though it’s more by circumstance than planning. They’re both in the library, working on their history project. Ben prefers that no one get in his way when he’s doing history, and that suits Bill fine, content to sit next to him at the table, sketching tiny portraits of each of the losers into the margin of his most recent letter to Beverly. Ben looks over at what he’s doing and frowns when he sees the full letter, hand falling self-consciously to the postcard sticking out of the edge of his own notebook. Bill’s eyes follow his hand and he frowns, realization dawning in his mind. He had never fully considered Ben’s feelings before, but feels somewhat sure that Ben has put them aside for the sake of their friendship. He’s speaking before he realizes what he’s saying, tapping the letter for context.

“She’s b-been really su-supportive since I told her I was gay.” Ben’s stunned into silence, and Bill waits for the reaction. Moments later, Ben is grinning.

“You’re not dating her? You’re not in a long distance dating thing with her?” Bill chuckles a little as Ben focuses on the thing he cares most about, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about Ben’s reaction when he finally realizes the full weight of what he’d been told. 

“N-nope. A-and if you really w-want to impress her, you should write h-her a poem. I heard s-some guy wrote her one a f-few summers ago that re-really blew her away.” Bill nudges Ben’s arm, and Ben almost blushes. They spend the next few hours talking quietly, Ben finally feeling comfortable enough to wax poetic about Bev’s beauty and grace, Bill more than willing to support. They don’t talk any more about what Bill had confessed, and if he’s honest about it, he’s happy they don’t. Ben hadn’t treated him any differently since finding out, hadn’t acted like this was a big deal at all. It makes Bill feel normal.

*

Eddie comes next, if not for any other reason than him wanting to put off telling Richie for as long as possible. After telling, he almost regrets the choice. 

*You’re GAY?” Eddie repeats, eyes widening, hand automatically reaching into his fanny pack. He stops just short of using his hand sanitizer. “What if you get…” His voice lowers to a whisper. “ _AIDS_?” Bill lets out a nervous chuckle, though he’s terrified of this reaction, assuming rejection. Eddie’s probably his oldest friend. He doesn’t want to lose him.

“W-why the whispering? Do you th-think the AIDS can h-hear you?” Eddie obviously doesn’t find this very funny.

“I’m serious, Bill! I don’t care what my mom will say, if you need me to, I’ll get you some condoms on her pharmacy account. Just promise me you’re gonna be safe.” Eddie’s eyes are soft and pleading, and Bill feels himself relax. Not a rejection at all. Just worry.

“I-I’m not doing an-anything like that now. B-but I promise I’ll be safe when I am. Way, way into the f-future.” Eddie gives Bill a stern look. “A-after college?” Eddie laughs shortly and relaxes, zips his fanny pack back up. He takes a few calming breaths, trying to get himself back under control without using his inhaler. When he has, he gives Bill a pensive look.

“Hey Bill? How do you know?” Bill’s eyebrows raise in question, and Eddie continues, looking uncomfortable. “When you feel like that for a guy. How do you know?” Bill smiles a little bit at that, plopping down on the edge of Eddie’s bed, near his pillow. Eddie sits primly on the opposite edge. Bill tells Eddie as best he can, though he himself doesn’t know exactly when or how he’d fallen for his friend. He tries to keep Stan’s name out of it, but the details make it clear that it has to be either him, Richie, or Eddie himself, and putting that together has made Eddie look a little nauseous. Eddie’s relief when he finds out that it isn’t him is almost insulting, but Bill tries not to take it personally. He can’t, really. Not when Eddie is listening so raptly to his feelings, like they somehow hold the answers of the universe. And especially not when Eddie absently starts fiddling with the spare cigarette lighter in his fanny pack, making Bill remember who else he’d told Eddie his feelings weren’t for. 

*

Richie is the last one to tell, outside of Stan. And while he’s not at all looking forward to having a heart to heart with the Trashmouth, he still hasn’t decided what telling Stan MEANS. Telling Stan he likes boys? Telling Stan he likes HIM? He has to decide before he can have that conversation, so he puts it off, deciding to come clean to Richie instead. He catches the boy at the arcade, yelling obscenities at the game he’s playing, a lit cigarette bouncing precariously between his lips, threatening to fall multiple times though all he ends up doing is dropping ash all over the game’s control panel. When his game is over, he turns to look at Bill, grinning around his cigarette.

“Billy Boy! Tell me you came here to play a nice arcade game where we can beat each other to bloody bits and not for any other stupid fucking reason!” Bill shakes his head no, and Richie sighs, raising a tube sock that’s heavy with change. “Aw, come on, man! I’ll even pay yours. I’ve got quarterrrrs!” He singsongs the last part, swinging his money sock back and forth in front of Bill’s face like a hypnotist. Bill makes a face, unfazed, and drags Richie out into the alley instead. Richie looks almost dejected. “Why does no one just want to hang out with me in my beautiful home?”

“Th-that’s not your home. That’s an ar-arcade. And this is important.” Richie waits, and Bill takes a deep breath. Richie makes a clicking noise with his tongue, a clear tick-tock-tick-tock. “Beep beep, Richie!” The noise stops, and he continues. “I… I’m gay.” Richie looks at him for a long moment, blankly, like he’s waiting for more. When none comes, Richie has the nerve to look annoyed. 

“You dragged me all the way out here for that, Billiam? Because I could have told you that a long goddamn time ago and saved you the trouble. I’m surprised you haven’t braided a bunch of grass into a fucking ring and asked Rabbi Uris for his kid’s hand in not marriage yet.”

“He’d h-hate that.” Bill isn’t sure whether he’s talking about Stan’s father, or proposing to Stan with a dirty grass ring. Both, probably. Richie takes the last drag of his cigarette before ashing it out on the building, leaving the butt where it landed.

“Well, you would be the expert on what he wouldn’t hate, wouldn’t you Big Bill? Except I know he likes this thing where you put your tongue-” Bill shoves him before he can continue his sentence, and Richie is smart enough not to. “Just pulling your leg, man. Ease the fuck up.” Richie steps close, gives Bill’s cheek a loud, smacking Roger Rabbit kiss. Bill flinches away, but he’s laughing as he wipes the spit from the side of his face. “And not to step all over your grand announcement? But you’re as bisexual as David Bowie, kid.” Richie winks, gently slaps Bill’s cheek twice, and walks back toward the arcade. Bill doesn’t know what that means.

“Greta’s br-brother?” He calls out after RIchie. Richie just laughs.

*

There’s only one more person Bill wants to talk to before Stan, and he hopes to fuck that this one doesn’t talk back. He waits until both of his parents are out of the house, not wanting to risk them finding out about it and calling him sick again. When he’s sure they’re gone, he pulls a shoebox out from under his bed. There are a few girlie magazines on top of his pile of treasures to throw his parents off in case they ever find this, and he moves them without a second thought. He carefully pulls out a sturdy lego turtle and the few old pictures of Georgie he and Stan had managed to find hidden around the house before his parents got to them. He smiles sadly when he sees them, voice soft.

“Hey, G-Georgie. I know it’s b-been a long time.” Bill pulls the small turtle into his lap, holds it like a security blanket. “I know it’s s-selfish to only talk to you wh-when I need something, huh? But I n-need something now.” He laughs softly, feels like maybe his parents were right when they called him crazy. But he doesn’t stop talking. “I re-remember how much you loved Stan. I-it was like you wa-wanted him to be your big brother instead of me sometimes. I w-was jealous, but I get it b-better now. Stan is… Sp-special. I th-think I...” He breathes in deep, eyes getting a little misty though he refuses to cry, voice breaking. “Y-you don’t hate me, do you Georgie? I-if I told you I w-was gay, you w-wouldn’t…” He sniffles, wiping his eyes. “You-you’d still be pr-proud of me, right?” The picture doesn’t speak back.

*

Telling Stan turns out to be completely unplanned. Stan shows up at Bill’s house one evening after dinner, smile wider than Bill is used to seeing on him. He’s almost concerned until he sees the thick pack of college brochures bundled neatly in Stan’s hands. He sends Stan to his room while he goes to fetch them sodas, and arrives back with them to see Stan sitting on his bed, comfortable and cross-legged, the pamphlets organized neatly before them. He’s almost amused to see nothing for any school east of Idaho. He sets both of their sodas on his bedside desk, then climbs onto the bed with Stan, careful not to mess up any of his carefully sorted papers. Stan leans forward to adjust one of the pamphlets that had gone crooked, and Bill shifts so that his body is half behind Stan’s, gratified that Stan reflexively leans back into him, one of his arms casually coming to wind around Stan’s waist, chin tucked gently on Stan’s shoulder to see the papers. He listens to Stan chatter about which school has which amenities and programs, but he’s honestly barely paying attention, losing himself in the comfort of Stan’s body, the scent of his hair, the sound of his voice. He wants so badly to be allowed to get used to this. After about ten minutes of uninterrupted speaking, Stan seems to realize Bill hadn’t commented.

“Bill? What do you think about these?” They’d never talked about going to the same University, but both knew somehow that they would be. Bill fights to remember any of the details Stan had mentioned about any of the schools, then reaches his free arm around Stan’s body and points at one of the pamphlets.

“Th-that one sounds nice? I’ve heard Wash-washington is pretty. And you s-said they were good f-for writing, right?” Stan nods, his shoulders bowing in on themselves. Before Bill can ask, Stan continues.

“Yeah, I did. And that one’s really close to Portland. So you and Beverly…” Stan trails off, waving his hand, like that explains everything. Bill watches his hand motion, nose scrunching, wondering how that’s supposed to explain **anything**. He wonders how Stan could be sitting here cuddling with him in bed, planning their future together, and yet still be insecure about a relationship Bill almost had four years ago.

“Stan…” Bill starts, and Stan turns his head to look at him. Stan’s eyes are wide and vulnerable, his lips pressed together, like he’s trying to hold something back. His face is impossibly close. Bill tries to find the right words, gives up, and softly kisses Stan’s lips.


	10. Nine, Part 2

Stan badly wants to say that the kiss was magical. That’s what other people say, right? That it felt good, that it was a perfect fairytale moment that changed his life. He wants to say that he handled being kissed the way a normal person would, wants to say that he’s handled ANYTHING the way a normal person would. 

In reality, though? Stan isn’t normal. Stan isn’t capable of being normal. So when Bill kisses him, as soft and chaste as it is, Stan tenses up uncomfortably and can’t respond. He WANTS to - the touch of Bill’s lips to his own makes him realize just how badly he’d wanted Bill to do this, that he’d been hoping Bill would kiss him for months without even realizing what the feeling was. He can’t help but be uneasy with the new touch though, and he flinches away, hating himself for doing it, head down, frustrated tears burning behind his eyes. His fingers flex and twist compulsively, and he scratches at his knee, mind suddenly racing. The brochures on the bed are crooked, disorganized. The corner of one is bent up slightly. He feels queasy, grabs up all of the pamphlets in his hands, smoothes down the corners. He organizes them alphabetically, still feels displeased about them. Organizes them again by location, north to south. He can feel Bill’s eyes on him, concerned but not judging. Never judging. Stan sets the pamphlets on the nightstand, organized, but still doesn’t feel soothed. He starts his breathing exercises, tries to focus on them past the ever-rising mortification he feels. He hates that he can’t do even this normally. That he always has to be damaged in front of Bill.

Bill seems to read his mind, one hand rubbing soothingly at Stan’s leg, his voice soft, their eyes meeting. “He thrusts his fists ag-against the posts…” Stan knows exactly what Bill is doing. Showing Stan that he’s not perfect either, reminding Stan that he’s not the only one between them who’s broken down. Stan’s mind begins to clear.

“And still insists he sees the ghosts.” Stan finishes, letting out a whoosh of breath. His hyperfocus on the details of the room fades, and he’s left mostly calm again, shoulders sagging. He becomes aware again that he’s practically in Bill’s lap, in Bill’s bed. After Bill had kissed him. Bill can obviously tell that he’s come back to himself, and he gives Stan a nervous smile.

“W-wow. I didn't think I w-was that bad a ki-kisser?” Bill's trying to calm him, Stan knows, but there's still worry clear in his eyes. Stan tries to answer, wants to say something reassuring and untrue, but no words come out. He tries again, forces himself to speak.

“It wasn’t… I wanted you to. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Stan gives Bill an apologetic look, then looks away. His voice is weak. “You know I’m not good with new things.” He can feel Bill smiling at him, cranes his neck back up to see it as though he’s growing into the sun. Bill’s happiness is soothing to him, makes him feel like somehow this will be okay. Like he hasn’t destroyed it already. 

“I’ll h-help you get used to it. I-if you want me to. I want to.” Stan’s stomach flips, both giddy and nervous. He’s almost uncomfortable enough to say no, but finds himself nodding without really realizing it. Bill grins, and Stan tries to prepare, expecting Bill to kiss him again. Bill doesn’t. “How about w-we watch some TV?”

They do end up turning something on - some sitcom, Stan thinks, though he’s honestly barely paying attention. Bill doesn’t let go of his body, and he doesn’t pull away - this touch is normal to Stan, routine for the two of them, and the familiarity comforts him. He lets himself relax into it, the awkwardness fading away as they joke back and forth about the show the way they'd done for years, practically automatic by now. Within an hour he's nodding off, cheek nuzzled against Bill’s collarbone, Bill’s lips and nose in his curls. 

*

A week later, Stan knows he's ruined it. They're sitting at the Aladdin with all of the others, Bill’s arm draped casually around his shoulders the way it always is during movie nights. Everything feels completely normal, the way it's always been. The way it’s been all week, since that night in Bill’s room. So normal that Stan almost feels out of place in it. And Bill hasn't tried to kiss him again. He feels almost hypocritical for thinking it - Bill had kissed him the first time, and he hasn't exactly tried to even the score. He's not even sure he's ready to kiss Bill back yet, a nervous flutter twisting in his gut when he even thinks about that. 

But Bill had said he wanted this, hadn't he? Had asked if he could do it again. _To make you feel better about panicking,_ Stan’s mind shoots at him. _Half of the people in our class would fuck him right now if he asked them to. Why would he want to waste his time convincing you to even kiss him?_ He doesn't think he's lost his chance yet - Bill isn’t that fickle, and it’s not as if Bill had never seen him him break down before. But to get them back on track, he knows he'd have to make the move, to kiss Bill. And as much as he wants to kiss Bill, wants to preserve Bill’s feelings for him, he can't bring himself to do it. He realizes that this is the end of whatever he and Bill had been building, and he knows it’s his fault. His shoulders bow in on themselves, and he’s too morose to even notice the movie ending.

Bill threads their fingers together, and Stan allows it, lets Bill pull him out of his seat and lead him toward the exit, their friends already filing out the door. He hears them chatting animatedly about the movie, but the details rush past him, eyes unfocused, barely listening. He only starts paying attention again when he realizes that Bill isn’t following the others. He’s about to ask, but before he can, Bill is in his space, pressed close. Kissing him. Stan can’t return it, but Bill doesn’t seem to expect him to.

“St-stop sulking. It’s too cute and you’re d-distracting me.” Stan’s smile is blinding as Bill pulls him out into the sun.

*

Stan knows he’s paranoid. He’s always been the one to assume that something bad will happen, that people are talking about him behind his back. He knows the others don’t still see It the way he does - they have nightmares sometimes, maybe, but no more than that. He wonders if they’re Forgetting, or if they’re just… forgetting. Moving on. Normal. Wonders yet again why he can’t be normal. _Maybe It put something in your face!_ He can still hear the creature’s gleeful cackling clearly, Its sickly teasing cadence. _Maybe It laid eggs beneath your skin that’ll hatch in 24 years! Maybe you’re the one who starts the cycle all over again!_ He forces the thought from his mind. 24 years is a long way away, and he’ll have plenty of time to worry about it in the future. He’s got other concerns now. 

The neighbors… are watching him. He knows it sounds insane, and he’d never tell anyone his worries, but he constantly feels their eyes on him. He thought that maybe It had really returned at first, but each time he looked up expecting to see Pennywise watching, he caught an adult he knew giving him a dirty look and quickly turning away. He’d thought it was just the ones who hated his family for their Jewish heritage, hated seeing him with his kippah on, but he’d even started getting the looks from Jewish families. It makes him anxious. Makes him feel as if they somehow KNOW what he’s been doing with Bill. Why else would they suddenly be looking? He chokes back a bitter laugh at the thought. They couldn’t see the clown killing the missing children. Couldn’t see the damaged skin on his face. But somehow, all of them can see the phantom imprint of another boy’s lips on his own. 

His eyes dart around nervously, as though somehow everyone around him can read his thoughts in the air, but he doesn’t need to worry. Richie is in the middle of a story, hands waving dramatically, demanding every bit of the attention from all of them. What is he supposed to do in this situation? He sees Richie pause for effect, forces a laugh. Gets a strange look from Eddie. Fuck. He isn’t the one who laughs at Richie. What does he do, again? How does he BE Stanley Uris? What are his lines? He scratches his thigh, agitated. A selfish part of him wishes that the others were worse off, that he wasn’t the only one standing here wondering how he’s supposed to make things seem okay. 

A hand comes to rest on the small of his back, and he jumps before realizing that it’s Bill. It’s always Bill. He tries to give Bill a reassuring smile, but it feels more like a wince, and Bill’s face makes it obvious that he isn’t falling for this for a second. Stan wants to be able to reassure him, wants to be able to be happy for his sake, but he can’t. He gives up, tunes them out, and stares forlornly at a blackbird in the distance.

*

With his parents, the lie is easier. Unlike his friends, who don’t help at all, they’re always careful to tell him what they expect of him before making him speak. Their constant schedule of expectations keeps him from having to improvise, and for the first time in his life, he’s grateful for that. “Did you do your homework? Have you practiced your Torahnic reading for Saturday’s Shabbat services? Have you taken your vitamins?” He knows the answer to those questions. He knows what actions he has to take to be what these people expect of him. It’s easy to let himself fall into the pattern of pleasing them, of doing what they think he’s supposed to. To play the role of Stan Uris, Dutiful Jewish Son. He thrives at it for a little while, throws himself into it with an almost desperate vigor. Then one Saturday at Temple, he mispronounces a word in Hebrew, stutters over the next one before correcting himself. He doesn’t make another mistake in the prayer, but one look at his father tells him that the Rabbi is upset with him. He’s failed to play his part yet again. He’s cracking under the pressure, and he feels himself slip further away.

*

Stan knows what God wants of him too, if only because his father has taken great pains to tell him. God wants him to read the Torah in the original Hebrew. He can mostly pronounce the characters from the books, but that’s all memorization. He doesn’t have the heart to tell his father that he doesn’t know what any of the words mean. God wants him to be dutiful, to be pious. God wants him to stop questioning his faith. God wants him to know that everything happens for a reason. _What reason did you have for Pennywise, God? Did Georgie deserve it? Did those other kids? What did they do wrong? What did **I** do wrong? Did I deserve to have my face eaten in a sewer because I didn’t take my teachings seriously until I saw Satan?_ He wants to deny the thought, but can’t. Blasphemy is against the rules, but it’s a rule that Stan has always broken. It feels normal to be breaking it still.

The two things he wants most are the most forbidden, at least according to his father. Not that they’d ever personally talked about either of these things - he’d never bring up anything this real to Rabbi Uris - but he’s heard enough sermons to know. He wants to kill himself, to feel the weight of people’s expectations slowly floating away from him, leaving him a blissful moment of calm before he dies. _’They all float.’_ And he wants Bill, in a way that he probably shouldn’t, in a way that might be more of a sin than suicide. He thinks the suicide would be less of an embarrassment to his father. _Did I deserve to have my face eaten in a sewer because you knew that one day, I’d want Bill Denbrough to love me?_

Stan knows he can’t have both, that they’re mutually exclusive. And he knows he won’t make it long without choosing either one. But he feels stuck between the options, lazy and slow, unsure of which one to fight toward. He prays for guidance, but the action is wooden and hollow, no faith behind it. He thinks that the Clown is more likely to be listening than God is.

*

When Stan goes to pick Bill up for school, Bill simply laces their finger together and tugs him into the house. He supposes he should’ve expected it, but his autopilot doesn’t anticipate changes in the schedule, and he’s too exhausted to fight BIll on it. Once in the safety of Bill’s room, Bill turns to face Stan. Stan knows he’s caused the concern in Bill’s tired eyes, and the guilt starts to pull at him again.

“Y-you’ve been different. Ever since I ki-kissed you. Did I fuck up? Should I n-not have...?” Stan is shaking his head no before Bill can even finish his sentence.

“I wanted you to. It wasn’t you, it isn’t that.” Stan tries for levity. “Of course, it would be hard for you to measure up to my first kiss. It’s like she had my entire face in her mouth.” The grave look on Bill’s face shows him that he’s failed, and he sighs, shoulders sagging. He waits for Bill to speak again, to take pity on him and give him a way out of this. The silence between them stretches on, neither of them saying a word. Stan’s face starts to itch. Bill stares patiently at him, squeezes his hand, rubs his wristbone. Stan’s skin crawls. He wants to run. The words flow out of him in a rush, sound almost angry. “I don’t know how to be what you want me to be, Bill! I know everybody wants me to be him but I don’t know HOW anymore!” His eyes prickle with tears, and Bill pulls him close, wraps him in a warm hug. The last of Stan’s wall breaks, and he clutches at Bill’s shirt, screams into his chest. “He went into the sewer and he didn’t come back out with me. I had to leave him there. Everybody else got to come out whole but I’m _missing_ something, can’t you see that? I can’t just be the person I was before that fucking summer!” Stan shoves his fists against Bill’s chest, angry and frustrated, sniffling against the fabric of his shirt. Bill coughs slightly, but doesn’t let go.

“No o-one ex-expects you to be that p-person, Stan. You didn’t just st-stop being Stan because of what that ba-bastard took from you. You had some b-bad times, and you’re not 13 anymore. You g-grew up. Th-things change. For all of us.” Stan burrows deeper into Bill’s sweater, clutches it to his face, tries to lose himself in the warmth. Bill rubs his back slowly, evenly. Stan locks on the rhythm, mind counting the seconds as Bill’s hand travels along his spine, unconsciously matching his breath to it. Up, ten seconds. Breathe in. Down, ten seconds. Breathe out. Bill speaks again, his voice calming, reassuring. A port in the storm. “You don’t have to hi-hide this from the losers. We can handle it. We’re y-your family. We don’t ju-just love you when you’re p-perfect.” Stan thinks of his family, of his _father_ , and it makes him feel cold. He presses harder to Bill’s body, a silent mutiny against the man.

He’s not sure how long they stand there in the middle of Bill’s room, hugging too tightly for it to be comfortable. Long enough for Stan to stop crying, though neither of them mention that when it happens, neither trying to pull away. He doesn’t hear much traffic on the road outside, and the din of laughing schoolchildren running down the streets is gone, so he knows that school must have already started. They’re deviating from his schedule by not going, but his outburst has left him too weak to care. He pulls his face back from Bill’s chest, gives him a wan smile. “Sorry. That’s been building up for a while.” Bill doesn’t look even slightly upset, and Stan wonders if this is what acceptance feels like.

“I-it’s okay. You don’t have to a-ap… ap… say you’re sorry to me.” Stan can’t help but smile in amusement, and Bill gives a rueful grin. “Yeah, y-yeah, laugh it up.” Bill runs his fingers lightly through Stan’s hair, and his eyes soften. Stan unconsciously loosens his hold on Bill, allows the desperate clutch to relax into something cozy and intimate, hands resting flat on Bill’s clavicle. “You sh-should have told me you w-were feeling like this.” Bill seems to realize how that sounds after what they’d just talked about, and he backpedals quickly, the concern making him trip over his words more than usual. “N-not th-that you had to i-if you didn’t w-want. I j-just would h-have been th-there… WILL be th-there… I m-mean, I’m HERE…” Bill gives Stan a sheepish look, and Stan just stares at him for a moment, stunned. Stan is unable to hold back the breathless chuckle for long, and Bill’s eyes shine at the sound.

“I know. Bill. I know you’ll stick around with me. I just don’t know what that means right now. I don’t know how to be… me. It’s like I’m constantly looking at situations wondering what Stanley Uris would do. What I’m supposed to do to convince people I’m still him. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense to you, but…” Stan trails off, shrugging. Bill gently squeezes Stan’s waist.

“Y-you _are_ Stanley Uris. You don’t h-have to fit into an ideal. Anything you do is so-something Stanley Uris would do, because it’s something you d-did. Don’t overthink it.” _Don’t overthink it,_ Stan’s mind echoes, his fingers flexing gently into Bill’s sweater. Bill’s hands burn through the sides of his thin dress shirt. Bill’s breath is warm on his cheek. _Don’t overthink it._

Stan wraps his fingers around the sides of Bill neck, tilts his head up, and kisses him. His angle is off, and their noses bump awkwardly, but the smile Bill presses to his lips is _radiant_. Then Bill changes their angle slightly, makes their lips slide together, clutches his hands tighter around Stan’s waist. Stan still doesn’t feel magic, or fireworks, or whatever fairy tale bullshit you’re supposed to feel. But Bill is warm and stalwart and _solid_ in his arms, and Stan needs this more than he’s needed anything since they’d all gotten out of the sewers. He feels… _happy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks in advance for reading this. I have no idea how long this fic will be, as it has already doubled in size from my original projection, and I have two questions for you:  
> 1\. How Part 2 canon compliant do you want this to be? Do they get a happy ending?  
> 2\. How much sexual content are you comfortable with? They're 17 going on 18 now, and they'll be 18 in a jiff, but I'd like to know where you guys stand on a scale of none, referenced but not explicit, full on pron, etc. Thanks!


	11. Ten

Bill hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to date Stan and be his best friend at the same time. The idealistic part of his mind had convinced him that Stan knowing how he felt for him would help Stan feel secure in who he was, how he looked, where he fit. He’d expected to help Stan open up more with the other Losers - for Stan to use his own strength, then lean on Bill’s when he ran out. Bill was prepared to be a rock for him, to guide him out of the black hole he’d been stuck in. He pictured himself as Stan’s knight in shining armor, his Prince Charming, the person who could chase Stan’s clouds away for good. He’d thought this would be simple. 

He had been wrong.

They’re lying on Bill’s bed facing the TV, spooned against one another, Stan’s back against Bill’s front. Bill’s fingers stroke and twist through Stan’s curls, and Stan is fighting to keep a straight face, the corners of his lips repeatedly quirking up into little smiles before he forces them back down. Bill has never seen anything cuter, and can’t help but lean in for a kiss, gratified when Stan arches up to meet him, sucks at Bill’s bottom lip, curls his delicate fingers around the edge of Bill’s jaw. It’s exactly what Bill has always wanted them to be. It’s _perfect_.

“I need to figure out a way to convince my psychiatrist to give me Prozac.” Stan’s words are matter-of-fact, unemotional. Bill chokes. His fingers stop moving in Stan’s hair.

“ _W-what_?” Bill’s voice shakes when he asks, his stomach drops. Stan doesn’t seem to notice.

“Fluoxetine. It’s an SSRI medication used to treat obsessive compulsive disorder-” Bill takes a relieved breath. “-and clinical depression.” Bill’s heart clenches. “My OCD in’t bad enough to get a prescription just for that, but I can’t exactly tell my doctor that I need it because I’m traumatized after being attacked by a swirling light pretending to be a clown pretending to be the painting in my father’s office. A story like that would get me locked up in Juniper Hill with Bowers.” He feels Stan headbutt up into his fingers. “Hey, why are we stopping?” Bill’s fingers begin to card through Stan’s hair again, but they’re shaking. 

“Y-you’re not h-h-happy?” As Stan’s best friend, he’s glad that Stan had trusted him with this, supportive of the idea of Stan getting the medicine Stan feels like he needs. As Stan’s boyfriend, he’s a little wounded, and it shows clearly though his voice, his stutter more pronounced than normal. Stan sighs tiredly and shifts to face Bill. His hand raises to take Bill’s from his hair, squeezes his palm. Bill feels instantly guilty for making Stan comfort him when he obviously needs it more. Tries to force a smile. Stan squints at him, clearly not accepting it.

“Stop faking. If I’m not allowed to do that, you aren’t either. It’s not fair.” Stan snuggles closer to Bill, and their knees bump awkwardly before shifting to make room for one another, legs tangled together. “I’m not unhappy. Especially with you. You know that, Bill.” Stan tilts his head up for a kiss, and Bill returns it, still feeling a little bit off-kilter.

“Th-then why do y-you n-need p-pills?” Stan’s fingers raise to Bill’s hair, stroke through it the way Bill had been doing to him, looking a little awkward as he does. He’s got no idea what he’s doing, and he’s clearly just mimicking the motions Bill had used, hoping it’ll be comforting. It isn’t, and the swirling motion feels strange on his skull, but Bill knows Stan’s trying for affection, knows how foreign it still is for Stan to do so. He lets Stan think he’s gotten it right.

“Something still feels… off, about me. I’m always anxious, I’m always tired. I still get quiet when we’re with the others. I’m still insecure and paranoid and I still get really low when something doesn’t go perfectly. Even when it’s the tiniest detail that doesn’t fuck anything up and nobody else even notices it. You’ve been there, Bill. You’ve seen all of this, you know it happens.” Bill does know, probably better than anyone else, but the idea of Stan taking pills for it still makes him uncomfortable. He imagines Stan with a fanny pack full of little orange bottles like Eddie used to have, stuffed to overflowing. “I’ve even considered… Well. You know what I’ve considered. But I’ve thought about it a lot. For a long time.” Stan’s eyes are tired and weak, but Bill doesn’t know how to comfort him when his own mind is reeling. He’d known Stan had considered suicide that summer, right after the clown, but he hadn’t heard anything about it since then. He feels stupid and powerless for being so distracted by his attraction that he’d let himself miss something so important.

“A-are you sure th-that’s what it is? May-maybe it’s something el-else. Maybe it’ll just g-go away.” Bill The Best Friend hates Bill The Boyfriend in this moment. The Boyfriend is making it all about himself, is beating himself up for not noticing enough, for not helping enough these past few years. The Boyfriend is running through every moment in his mind since the sewer, trying to figure out what he could’ve done differently at each one, how he could’ve eased Stan’s pain. The Boyfriend feels pathetic for not saving Stanley the way Stanley had needed to be saved.

“I’ve been waiting for it to ‘just go away’ for four years, Bill. Things don’t ever ‘just go away’. You know that. You’ve always known that.” A flash of them outside of the Neibolt house runs through Bill’s mind. Stan screaming about how he won’t go back, Bill insisting that they have to. That the creature won’t ever just go away. Another flash of Stan, lying on his back in the greywater, his body twitching, his face entirely inside of the creature’s mouth. He clutches Stan’s body closer, and Stan’s arms settle around his shoulders, Stan’s lips press to his cheek. He knows Stan is thinking about it too, but Stan doesn’t seem as shaken up as he is. _Stan is **always** thinking about It. Stan is too depressed to be scared anymore. Stan is just another person you love that you can’t save from that fucking sewer. You can’t save **anyone**. Richie saved them, they saved themselves. Not you. Never you._

Bill hates this with every fiber of his being. What kind of leader is he if he’s incapable of making Stan better? What kind of boyfriend is he if Stan doesn’t have the faith that he can? “Y-you should t-try the pills.” Bill’s voice is soft. Stan smiles gratefully against his cheek, brushes their lips together. His eyes are amused, but there’s genuine questioning behind them.

“Bill? Do you still like me now that you know I’m an obsessive compulsive loser with clinical depression who’s about to get put on crazy pills?” Bill’s pretty certain that he more than likes Stan by now - he’s had years to work up to it. But this moment isn’t even close to when or how he wants to tell Stan. He presses a tender kiss to Stan’s lips, letting his affection shine through his suddenly exhausted eyes.

“I kn-knew most of those things already when I f-fell for you. You c-can’t scare me away just b-by saying it neg-negatively like that.” Stan laughs against Bill’s chest. Bill kisses his hair.

“Does that mean my favorite writer in the world will help me come up with a story for my shrink?” Bill doesn’t want to. His ego still feels wounded. 

“O-of course I will.”

*

At first, Bill isn’t sure that the pills are doing anything for Stan. He’s still shy, still self-deprecating, still breaks into the occasional fit of melancholy. He still arranges Bill’s paints and pencils by color. He still curls up with Bill’s body the same way and watches the same shows, has the same dry sense of humor Bill had learned to appreciate. Bill is torn on how he feels about that. He hates that Stan isn’t getting the results he wants, that he’s still depressed. But the selfish part of him, the part that didn’t want Stan to have the Prozac in the first place, is relieved that his boyfriend hadn’t changed. That these pills hadn’t taken away the parts of Stan that he’d fallen for in the first place. It’s comforting to him, though he knows he’s an asshole for feeling that way.

A few weeks later, he realizes he’s mistaken. The boys are all at the quarry, swimming during one of the last above freezing days of fall, the water barely warm enough to stand being in. Bill is having a splash fight with Ben, both boys shivering so hard from the water that their lips wobble though neither would be the first to admit that they were too cold to keep playing. He can hear splashing and laughter around them, counts two other voices - Mike and Eddie. Stan being silent isn’t new, but Richie’s voice being absent is almost worrisome in its rarity. He looks around for Richie, and his eyes catch on the shoreline. Stan is sitting on a log by the shore, a large towel wrapped around his trembling shoulders, head tilted up toward the sun, warming up. _Too thin to be in this cold water._ Bill curses himself for not noticing, for not going to sit with the other boy, for letting him go off alone. 

He’s about to swim to shore, but he sees Richie already there, getting out of the water and heading over toward the other boy. Richie shakes his whole body like a dog next to Stan, splashes little droplets of water all over him, noogies his hair. Stan tries to act annoyed, but just ends up laughing and shoving Richie off the log. Bill watches as they start talking, getting numb from more than just the icy water now. The pills work. Stan looks honestly happy. And he’s _jealous_. He’s not suspicious - he trusts Stan, and he trusts Richie, though Richie hasn’t been explicitly told about the two of them being together yet. He knows neither of them would ever betray him by starting something behind his back. But his mind flashes back to that summer again - to the six of them standing outside of the Neibolt house after Eddie’s mother had dragged him away, all of them afraid and yelling and angry. Stan taking Richie’s side in the fight, leaving with Richie, biking away from him. Him being spiteful enough to skip Stan’s Bar Mitzvah because of it, only to find out that Richie had still gone. Richie, who always went uptown to pick Stan up from his boy scout meetings before joining all of them in the barrens. His mind rushes through hundreds of fragments of memories of Richie and Stan’s friendship before the creature had come - every time Richie went to wait in the lunch line late so Stan wouldn’t be there alone, every time Stan agreed to spend a sunny afternoon in an arcade with Richie instead of out bird watching in a park...

The idea of those two having that kind of relationship again makes Bill wonder where he fits into Stan’s life. He couldn’t save Stan, but he had been there when Stan had needed him. If Stan didn’t need him anymore, what could he offer? He couldn’t make Stan laugh like Richie could. Would Stan want to start spending more time alone with Richie, like they used to years ago? Would Richie be able to make Stan happy the way he’d failed to? Would Stan’s feelings for Bill wane as his connection to Richie came back? Would Stan end up feeling more for Richie than for him? They wouldn’t start something behind his back, but if Stan realized he _liked_ Richie… 

He watches as Richie flops his head dramatically onto Stan’s towel covered shoulder, can see that he’s doing a voice though they’re far enough away that he can barely hear what the accent is supposed to be. Sees Stan fight back a smile and start drying off the other boy’s shaggy hair with the edge of his towel, picking up the conversation like it was completely normal. Bill remembers how hard he'd had to fight to get even a ghost of this type of affection from Stan, and he _hates_ that Stan's comfortable enough to give it to Richie without a second thought. 

As a friend, he feels happy for Stan, proud that he’d started to come out of his shell again. As a boyfriend, he’s queasy and insecure and so possessive that it stings. Another flash of memory from that summer. The sewers, inside the Standpipe, them facing down the creature. He raises the unloaded cattle gun, believing that pulling the trigger would somehow hurt the creature - stupid, _stupid_ \- and suddenly It’s attacking all of them. Stan, still bleeding and far too pale, jumps on the creature to help him and is flung across the cavern, cutting his arms on the gravel and glass. Bill himself gets nabbed by the creature, his head in Its hands, his neck bent uncomfortably, as though It was contemplating snapping his head off right there in front of the others. He’s unable to do anything to save his friends besides beg them to leave him there to die, to save themselves. Then there’s fucking Richie, stepping up to be the hero where he had failed, _Richie_ leading them to victory against the clown. Not him. Never him. 

He remembers Stan, weak with blood loss, giving him his club for one final blow to the creature. Stan had all of the reason in the world to take the swing himself, but gave it up to Bill. Because Bill needed it? Because even after what Stan had been through, losing Georgie was still more serious? Because the clown was making fun of his fucking stutter? Bill doesn't know why, but he knows he'd stood there, holding the piece of wood like a baseball bat, and hadn't swung. Stan had given up his weapon, his protection, and Bill hadn't followed through. Would that final blow have been the one that really killed It? The one that meant they didn't have to come back in 23 years? He doesn't know. All he knows is that he hadn't taken the swing. He pictures Richie swinging his bat again. _“Welcome to the Losers Club, asshole!”_ Fucking Richie. 

The boys don't spend much more time in the water that day, rejoining Richie and Stan on the beach, drying off and heating up in the afternoon sun. No matter how hard Bill tries, he can't make himself get warm. 

*

Bill and Stan are walking home from the quarry, jackets pulled tight around their bodies, the air starting to chill as the sunset nears. Stan’s hand is shoved awkwardly up the wrist cuff of Bill’s jacket, fingertips resting on the vein at the underside of Bill’s wrist, fingers curled slightly against the delicate skin there. His voice is soft, concerned. “Your hands are freezing, Bill. You shouldn’t have stayed out in the water for so long. You’re going to get sick, and kissing you is going to be way less pleasant for me when you’re coughing all over my face.”

“Y-you don’t ha-have to be with me. If y-you don’t w-want to.” The words tumble out before Bill can really think about them, and Stan just chuckles, obviously thinking he’s not serious. 

“Yeah, Bill. We’re breaking up because you might have a cold and I can’t handle you potentially sneezing near me.” Bill looks down, stops walking. Doesn’t answer. Stan gives him a strange look, confused but slightly vulnerable too. “You’re serious. What… are you breaking up with me?” Bill’s eyes widen, and he immediately turns to face Stan, takes both of Stan’s hands in his. They’re freezing, and he squeezes them tighter, rubs, tries to warm them.

“No, f-fuck, no! I’ve l-liked you for two fu-fucking years, I w-wo-wouldn’t ever do that!” The worry leaves Stan’s eyes, though he’s still clearly confused. “B-but if you liked so-someone else. Ruh-Richie…” Stan is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“Richie? Bill, did you accidentally drink quarry water or something? Because I think there are drugs in there.” Bill shakes his head dumbly. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, but he’s pretty sure none of the things he’s done so far qualify. Stan glares. “So you’re not on drugs. And you’re not breaking up with me. You’re setting me free to run away and have a love affair with Richie Tozier.” It sounds dumb when spoken aloud, and Bill would usually be soothed by that. Usually, Bill isn’t insecure. Today isn’t usual, though, and Bill finds himself yelling his frustration in Stan’s face.

“I saw y-you with him, Stan! I sa-saw how happy you were! You have Ri-Richie and your shrink and your fu-fucking p-pills and you don’t need me! I ca-can’t help you and I can’t save y-you, I ca-can’t save **an-anyo-one** and I c-can’t ma-make you ha-happy and you don’t _n-need_ -” Bill is cut off when Stan rips his hands away from his, shoves him hard in the chest. Bill is sturdier than Stan is, and the shove makes Stan bounce back more than it moves Bill, but it gets his point across.

“You’re a fucking _idiot_ , Bill.” Stan’s arms wrap around Bill’s neck tightly, and Bill’s hands reflexively raise to curl around Stan’s slender hips. Stan’s voice breaks with emotion, voice raised though he’s not really yelling. “I’m only strong enough to do any of this because of you, asshole! You told me to stop pretending and deal with this shit! Do you really think I would’ve been able to admit there was something else wrong with me without you? It’s fucking SCARY, okay? I can’t really talk to my parents, or my fucking shrink, or anyone else who is supposed to listen. You being here with me, talking to me, not judging me, fucking supporting me, is the best thing I’ve ever had in my _life_.You’ve helped me so much more than anyone or anything else ever could, including the fucking pills. But you can’t save everyone all by yourself, Bill. Things just don’t work that way. I need them to help me get better. I need the pills, and I need you, and I need my friends. And yeah, that includes Richie. But me needing all of those other things doesn’t mean I don’t need you. It doesn’t mean you’re not enough. You’re more than enough, stupid.” 

Bill’s not sure when either of them started crying, their foreheads pressed together, tears mingling and freezing down both of their cheeks. He snuffles against Stan’s nose, kisses his lips hard, voice raw with emotion. “I-I-I’m so s-so-sorry. Fuck, S-Stan…” Stan kisses Bill again, holds him until both of their tears stop, nails gently scratching the back of Bill’s hairline. When the tears have faded, Bill pulls back, about to apologize again. Stan cuts him off, giving him a morose look. 

“You cried on my face.” Bill huffs out a small laugh, raises the sleeve of his jacket to wipe Stan’s cheeks clean, then his own. Stan just stares, pensive. “Did you mean it? When you said you liked me for… never mind.” Stan shifts uncomfortably, looks down, cheeks pink. Bill is relieved at the question - this, he can do without fucking up. He knows it. 

“T-two years. Yeah, S-Stan. I d-drew you the yellow finch b-bird we saw the day I f-fell. Remember?” Stan’s face glows, his lips curve upward. His happiness can be heard in his voice even through the admonishment.

“ _Gold_ finch, Billy. Birds have names.” Stan links their fingers together, tugs Bill to walk again, headed toward Bill’s house. “They say that goldfinches are supposed to remind you to be joyful in the now. And that every moment you spend wallowing in negative emotions is a moment you haven’t spent feeling joy. They also say that if you dream about finches, it means you’re in…” Stan blushes appealingly, stammers. “That’s probably just romantic bullshit, though.” 

“I th-think I like the romantic bullshit.” Bill smiles, brushes his thumb against Stan’s wristbone. They’re silent for a moment, comfortable.

“I can’t believe you thought I could ever be interested in Richie. Of all the possible people to be jealous of.” Stan shakes his head, a tiny grin curving his lips. Bill just rolls his eyes.

“He-he’s not bad. Which I can on-only say because I know you aren’t interested.” Stan laughs at Bill, rests his head on Bill’s shoulder as they walk.

“You know, I have a history project to do with Ben on Friday. Intimate library, cozy atmosphere… Better watch out or I’ll fall in love.” His voice is mockingly serious, and Bill groans, feels his ears turn pink.

“Sh-shut up. Ju-just wait until you get jealous s-someday.” Bill kisses the top of Stan’s head. Stan hums in contentment.

“I was jealous over you for a long time, Bill. You skipped my Bar Mitzvah to hang out with your girlfriend, how could I not be? And when I get jealous again, I promise I won’t dump you and tell you to fly free with another boy.” Stan lets go of Bill’s hand, wraps his arm around Bill’s waist instead. “I think I’m a clinger.” 

“G-good. That means you-you’ll stay close.” Bill smiles wide, his own arm coming to wind around Stan’s waist. “A-and I sk-skipped your Bar M-Mitzvah because I was mad a-at Richie and I d-didn’t want to punch him again in fr-front of your family.” Stan snorts with laughter, burrows his face into the side of Bill’s jacket.

“You should have. It would’ve taken everyone’s attention off of how badly I fucked up the words.” They get quiet again, though this silence is comfortable. Stan’s head is still on Bill’s shoulder, and Bill presses his cheek to Stan’s hair, smells his shampoo, feels Stan’s warmth sinking into his side. It’s not everything he’s ever dreamed of. The tip of Bill’s nose is numb, his fingers and toes are stiff with cold. He can already feel the sickness tickle in the back of his throat, knows that he’ll be bedridden by the weekend. Can already imagine Stan in his room, trying to take care of him in the way his mother no longer even bothered to, throwing too many blankets on him and awkwardly rubbing his back, his OCD fighting between picking up the garbage strewn over the floor and refusing to touch the soiled tissues. It’s messy, but it’s real.

It’s _perfect_.


	12. Eleven

“D-do you think we could t-tell the guys ab-about us?” Bill’s question is innocent enough, but it still makes Stan’s ears ring. They’re sitting on Bill’s bed together side by side against the headboard, Stan’s long legs slung sideways over Bill’s thighs, Bill’s arm tight around Stan’s waist to keep him close. The TV is quietly playing on the other side of the room, but neither boy is paying attention to it, the glow of the screen shining on the trail of saliva down the side of Stan’s neck and illuminating the faint hickey just visible on the skin exposed by his unbuttoned polo shirt. Stan’s nails unconsciously dig into the skin at Bill’s side, just below his rucked-up tee shirt.

“Should I be offended that you’re thinking about the guys right now?” Stan’s voice is a little breathless, and his heart is pounding for more than one reason. He’d seen the conversation coming, but in the moment still feel surprised. Bill laughs.

“N-no, definitely not thinking ab-about them. Just thinking about d-doing this without hiding it.” Stan gives Bill a mildly horrified look, and Bill corrects himself. “Not EXACTLY this. J-just… Not worrying about k-kissing you in front of th-them.” Bill looks endearingly hopeful, and Stan’s fingers curl into a fist, nails making little half-moons in his palm. He’d known that this couldn’t last forever, but he’d expected to have longer to get used to the idea before they actually talked about it. Part of him wants to give in to his instincts and just say no, but he imagines the eager happiness in Bill’s eyes fading and he just can’t make himself do it.

He likes them being private, likes having this just for himself. What he and Bill have now is simple, uncomplicated. Bill is his haven away from the pressure and expectations he has to deal with everywhere else, and people finding out about them would shatter that. It would become something that belonged to all of the losers somehow, the way all of their private things did. All of the sudden, there would be five other people involved, other people’s opinions on what their relationship should be. There would be questions, their friends unknowingly breaking into his sanctuary and dissecting it piece by piece, judging what he and Bill are to their own standards, pressuring them to be something different than they are now. 

They won’t mean to, but he can already hear the innocently asked questions. “Where did you go on your first date?” They hadn’t actually had a date yet. Not normal, not organized. “When did you decide to be exclusive?” They hadn’t even discussed it. Not structured the way a relationship is supposed to be. Out of order. _Messy_. The thoughts only underscore that things between he and Bill haven’t gone the normal way a relationship does, and Stan knows that it’s his fault somehow. He can’t help but think that they’ll all know that Bill can do better than him. He starts to count his breaths. _One. Two. Three. Four. Too fast. Slow down._

Richie will be there with his jokes, constantly talking about how he and Bill should be fucking, constantly making Stan feel insecure that they haven’t. He knows Bill wants to, but Stan is still trying to get used to kisses deeper than a peck and touches being given and received beneath still-worn clothes, and the thought of sex makes him anxious. The idea of Stan being gay had never even crossed his mind before he’d begun to want Bill, and while he loves the kissing and touching and the _solidity_ of Bill being male, he’s a little bit scared that he won’t like the sex. That he’ll be head over heels in love with Bill someday, but hate what they do together. Bill’s been patient, but how long will that last if Richie is always making him think about how they're supposed to be fucking by now? His fingers twitch against Bill’s ribcage, the little progress he’d made toward intimacy feeling even smaller than it had before.

They’re seventeen, for fucks sake. Seventeen, and Stan has only just gotten to the point where Bill licking beneath his throat doesn’t leave him a tense, blushing mess. He hasn’t even had the nerve to do the same back to Bill, still trying to get used to his fingers on Bill’s skin in places he’d never had to really think about touching in the past. He’s touched Bill’s chest and stomach before, had his legs wrapped around Bill almost naked, but things were different then. Chicken fights in the quarry surrounded by friends are very different than being alone with a boy in bed. 

The boy in bed with him who is now giving him the most kicked puppy look he’s ever seen. Fuck. He nuzzles his cheek against Bill’s shoulder, winding their fingers together. “Soon, Bill. I promise. I like having this just be for us right now, but we can tell them soon.” He can tell that Bill is a little bit disappointed, and he feels bad about that, but he selfishly lets Bill give in to him anyway. He kisses Bill’s lips softly, strokes his fingers up Bill’s lean bicep the way he knows Bill likes, distracts him from the conversation.

They’ll tell everyone. Just not today.

*

Hiding their relationship is more difficult than Stan had realized it would be, and it’s mostly Bill’s fault. Bill isn’t ignoring Stan - he’s not that petty, and Stan knows that Bill would never want to pressure him into something he wasn’t ready for - but Bill is acting strangely. Stan knows that Bill is trying to do what had been asked of him, trying to keep what they have under wraps until Stan is ready to tell, but Bill’s attempt at feigning normalcy is _terrible_. Almost pathetic enough to make Stan suspect that he’s failing on purpose just to force a confrontation. Stan has to remind himself that Bill doesn’t have as much experience pretending as he does. 

Normalcy usually involves them walking to and from school together, often holding hands, meeting the others along the way but not separating from one another until they reach the building. Bill would always sit next to Stan in classes they had together and pressed close to Stan’s side at lunch, their little group’s seating arrangements pretty much set in stone after this many years. It’s expected that Bill will wait for Stan to jump before him at the quarry, just to make sure that Stan doesn’t get distracted by a bird in the trees and wander off back into the forest alone. If the two were in the same place at the same time, it was pretty much a given that they’d be near each other, something that everyone took for granted without a second thought.

But Bill isn’t following the plan. Bill’s hands have found what seems to be a permanent place in the pockets of his coat during their walks. Bill is sitting on the other side of their small lunch table now, Mike and Ben both between them. Bill is at the cliff’s ledge first now, only sparing a worried glance back at Stan to make sure he’s coming before jumping off. Each of these new actions only adds a few feet of distance between the two of them, but to Stan it feels much further. He can tell that Bill hates it too - every so often when Stan looks over to where Bill is he catches the boy staring at him, a melancholy yearning look in his eyes, like his biggest wish in life is to just move over to where Stan is, consequences be damned. Stan almost swallows his pride and reaches out to Bill dozens of times, but in the end, can’t bring himself to. It would only draw even _more_ attention to he and Bill’s relationship, and in spite of the fact that Stan feels cold and lonely without Bill at his side, he still isn’t ready for everyone to find out yet. 

Things are almost the opposite when they actually get to be alone - it seems like the second they’re shut away in the privacy of Bill’s bedroom the other boy can’t get close _enough_ , bodies squeezed and pressed tightly together, kisses almost desperate, fingers stroking over skin as though they haven’t seen one another in days. Bill’s hands shake in Stan’s hair, comb wide through his curls, cup his head as though Bill is afraid Stan will slip through his fingers if he lets go. Stan himself can’t get enough of breathing in Bill’s cologne, the familiar faded blend of spices missing from the air around him all day, the scent of it surrounding him again making him feel heady and dazed. The lack of contact all day has both of them needing to be touched, so much so that even when the needy kisses die down both boys are still reluctant to let go of the physical contact. Stan has taken to doing his homework halfway in Bill’s lap just to feel the boy’s warmth and heartbeat, and Bill’s penmanship gets even sloppier now that he won’t remove his hand from Stan’s waist to steady the paper while he writes. 

Stan knows he should just give in and tell the other Losers, but there’s a niggling voice in his mind that tells him not to. _’You’re not good enough for Bill. You’re damaged, you’re weak, and you’re a prude. Even without the scars, you’d just be plain. You can’t even manage to be plain anymore. You’ll tell everyone, and they’ll all remind him that he can do better than you. He’ll leave, and they’ll all know you failed. You’ll lose him. You’ll have to go back to pretending again, and he won’t care to pull you back out.’_ He knows Bill is deeper than that, that their _friends_ are deeper than that, but the insecurity still paralyzes him. Their friends will find out someday, and he’ll deal with the fallout when it comes. For now he’ll savor every moment he gets to spend alone with Bill, just in case.

*

The day comes more quickly than Stan would’ve liked. The Losers are all gathered in Bill’s bedroom for one of their many movie nights, spread out over the bed and floor, watching something that (for once) is blissfully not of the horror genre. Stan is still uncomfortable though, because Bill is still acting strangely. It’s routine for the two of them to sit together during every movie, hold hands, maybe even for Bill to put his arm around him. But this time is different. This time, they’re in a relationship that Stan had asked Bill to hide. He’d known that Bill had wanted to raise the subject again before their friends had arrived, but Bill had simply given Stan a sad look and hadn’t said anything. Stan knew he should’ve spoken up, but there was really nothing to say. He still didn’t feel differently about the situation, and it wouldn’t do either of them any good talking about it again with no new resolution, so he’d just let it go.

When the others got upstairs, Bill had looked at him sitting on the bed with a forlorn expression on his face, clearly at a loss of what to do. Then, he’d sat down on the floor next to Eddie instead, in Richie’s usual spot, ignoring Richie’s pointed glare until the boy just sighed and plopped down next to Stan on the bed. Stan knows he’s not being rejected, that Bill is just trying to honor his wishes, but it still stings. 

It stings, and Richie won’t stop moving on the bed, making it wiggle, the springs letting out uneven squeaking sounds that are driving Stan crazy. He looks over to scold Richie, and his eyes catch on Bill’s laundry hamper in the corner, at least two of his own shirts clearly visible in it. His stomach drops, and he hopes none of the others notice. There will be so many questions if they notice, and he can already feel his head start to hurt, one hand raising to rub his temple absently, eyes closing. If Bill were here with him, Bill would be playing with his hair right now. But Bill is on the floor, like a puppy abandoned by its best friend, alternating between staring blankly at the TV and giving Stan sad, longing looks when he thinks no one else is watching. Stan’s scars tingle slightly, and he itches at one of them, not opening his eyes. He can feel Bill’s earnest gaze, can tell that Bill wishes he’d have just sat with him, taken care of him. But Bill isn’t even in the wrong, and Bill’s guilt makes Stan feel even worse.

A face pushes up next to Stan’s ear, coke bottle glasses smashing into the side of his hair. Richie’s voice is, for once, surprisingly gentle. “Staniel, I love you to death and back, but stop being a salty bitch and forgive your man for whatever he’s pouting at you about before he cries and gives Eds a fucking panic attack.” Stan barks out a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze, a laugh, and a choke, then immediately looks down at Bill, only to find the boy glaring at Richie with undisguised jealousy in his eyes. No one else even looks in their direction, which Stan finds strange. He looks between Richie and Bill, then at the other three losers, nose scrunched.

“You all know already, don’t you?” Stan’s voice is accusatory and suspicious, and Bill’s eyes widen, the corners crinkling with his smile.

“Yep.” Ben says around a handful of popcorn, not looking away from the screen.

“Yep.” Mike echoes, relacing an old baseball glove in his lap, not looking up.

“Mother of fuck, can we just watch the movie one fucking time without interruptions?” Eddie grouses, sounding more annoyed than usual. Stan doesn’t understand how Eddie could be more annoyed with Bill as a seat partner than he normally is with Richie. “Oh, and yeah. _Obviously_.” Stan gapes at them. Waits for the questions, the comments, waits for them to tell him what he’s _supposed_ to be like as a boyfriend and all of the ways he’s not measuring up. None of that happens.

“More like fuck of your mother, right guys?” Richie crows next to Stan’s ear, cracks up, raises his hand for a high five. Stan reflexively grabs Richie’s wrist and pulls his hand down, though his mind is reeling. He wants to just accept this, but he can't believe it's really happening, and he can’t help but push his luck. 

“And that’s just… okay with everyone all of the sudden?” Mike, Ben, and Eddie share a look.

“I’m very happy for and supportive of both of you.” Ben placates nervously.

“It’s not for anyone else to tell you if it is or isn’t okay.” Mike says calmly, shrugging his shoulders a little too casually. 

“And we’ve all already known for a really long time that you two had big obnoxious crushes on each other and are glad you’re finally getting on with it.” Eddie finishes with a flourish. Mike and Ben gasp.

“Honestly, Eddie, did you not get the ‘don’t tell him that’ we clearly sent you with our eyes?” Mike admonishes, shaking his head. Eddie shrugs.

“I don’t want to look into your eyes and trade signals right now, Mike. I want. To watch. The FUCKING movie.” Richie laughs obnoxiously as Mike and Ben start throwing popcorn kernels at Eddie, and Stan practically basks in the easy acceptance he’d been given. He’s more relieved than he even realized he would be, the fear he'd been carrying about this fading away, shoulders sagging from the lack of tension in them. He can still feel Bill staring at him from the floor, and he turns to Richie, giving him a winsome smile.

“Richard?” Stan’s voice is pleasant for once. The sweet smile hurts his cheeks.

“Yes, oh light of my life?” Richie bats his eyelashes at Stan, smirks over Stan’s shoulder at where Bill is still seated, playfully taunting him. Stan points to the floor.

“You’re in my boyfriend’s seat. Move.” Richie laughs, and there’s clear pride in his eyes when he reaches over to ruffle Stan’s hair.

“Anything for you two lovebirds.” Richie gets up, holds his hands out to help Bill off of the floor. Bill takes the offer, giving Richie a weary glare before the two share a smile. Bill is just reaching the bed when Richie turns to them, waggling a stern finger in their direction. “Now remember kids, no hanky panky. Spaghetti here has an innocent mind and you can’t do things like that in front of him.” Everyone groans, and Richie plops down on the floor next to Eddie, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist. “There you are. You missed me so fucking much!” Eddie shudders, but he’s smiling wide.

“Get off me, you fucking parasite!” Stan watches them for a moment, watches Ben and Mike continue on like everything is normal, and just _breathes_ in a way that he hadn’t in weeks. The bed dips beside him, and he immediately shifts into Bill, allows Bill to pull him into a cuddle. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize and tell Bill that he’d been right about everything, but Bill speaks first, a bit of wonder in his eyes.

“Y-you called me your boyf-friend.” Stan blushes dark, looks away, but nods.

“Well… yeah. That’s what we’re doing, right? I know we never-” Stan is cut off by a hand cupping his jaw, fingers twisting in his hair, and a mouth crushing down onto his. His own hand comes up to curve around the back of Bill’s neck, arching up into the kiss, returning it sweetly. Stan’s vaguely aware of the wolf whistles and catcalls that rise from the floor, along with the screamed out **“His eyes! Someone cover the child’s eyes before he sees second base!”**. He’s still not comfortable that they’re watching. He knows that soon the jokes will come, the expectations. But for now, things are good, and he doesn't want to miss this part because he's too busy thinking about what will eventually go wrong. He tunes out the ensuing argument, curls further into his boyfriend’s body, and kisses him again.


	13. Twelve

Months after their first kiss, Bill still finds brooching the subject of romance with Stan difficult. Bill himself is a hopeless romantic - he’s a dreamer, an artist, the kind of person who follows his heart whenever possible. “Stupidly idealistic,” Stan had called him, in a way that hopefully was more affectionate than annoyed. Stan was just the opposite. Logical, calculating, practical. Depressingly realistic sometimes, though Bill thinks that their personalities complement one another perfectly, are yet further proof that they belong together. He’s almost certain that saying something so sentimental to Stan would only get him laughed at.

Bill wants to say it’s okay, wants to say that he can compromise on this, but he’s not sure he can. It isn’t from a place of jealousy - he’s pretty certain that he’d imagined the whole Richie thing, and it’s not as though he thinks Stan is interested in someone else. He’s actually _never_ seen Stan attracted to anyone else. And, as strange as it feels to admit, that’s part of the problem. They’d talked about it once, somewhat. Before they’d dated, he’d asked Stanley what his plans for the future were. Stan’s answer had been so blase that Bill hadn’t known what to do with it.

_”Probably just meet a nice Jewish girl and get married. Have some kids. Be an accountant.”_ It had been said with all of the passion of reading a grocery list, had left Bill unsure if Stan even LIKED girls, or marriage, or kids. With anyone else love would have been implied by the marriage, but with Stan? Bill honestly isn’t sure. 

Bill wears his heart on his sleeve, and he’s almost certain that Stan has had all of it for years. It would hurt more than he can even imagine to find out that Stan didn’t believe in love after all of their time together. He knows that Stan wants to be with him. Stan has made that clear since they started dating, in his own awkward way. But sometimes, Bill wonders if there’s enough sentiment in Stan’s heart to really **want** him, not just accept him as a suitable partner. Doing that would be logical, cold, practical. The kind of thing he could easily imagine from Stan. And it _terrifies_ him. He wants to talk about it, but he’s not sure how to bring it up without sounding like he’s insulting Stan, without implying that the other boy is doing something wrong, making Stan self conscious about everything they do together. He knows they’ll have to discuss it someday, but he needs to get this right. He decides to wait.

*

Bill and Stan are bird watching together in memorial park when Bill finally brings it up. It’s just after sunrise, and he’s sitting on the ground on a blanket, Stan cuddled between Bill’s spread legs, back against Bill’s chest. Bill’s arms are wrapped loosely around Stan’s waist; Stan has a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes, attention fully on the treeline. 

“D-do you want to go on a date with me?” Bill’s question obviously comes out of nowhere for Stan, but the boy shrugs without a second thought.

“Oh, sure.” This is nowhere near the reaction Bill is hoping for, and it makes him nervous.

“No. I’m not… I-I’m not asking you on one. I’m asking if y-you _want_ to go on o-one.” Stan puts the binoculars down and turns in Bill’s hold, scrutinizing Bill’s face. He obviously doesn’t understand. “Is go-going out important to you? D-do you l-like it?”

“Well, sure, Bill.” Stan’s face is still quite confused. “We have fun together. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like it.”

“N-no!” Bill feels himself getting frustrated. “This is-isn’t a d-da-date.” Stan gently squeezes Bill’s arm, trying to comfort him though he still obviously doesn’t know what for.

“I don’t really get the difference. We’re cuddled up, alone, at a place outside of our houses. We just watched a sunrise, which is supposed to be romantic or something, and we’re doing an activity together. We’re having a conversation now, and later on, I’m highly likely to kiss you. That’s what dates are, right?” Bill wants to fucking kiss him, but holds back.

“Sort of. I m-mean… those are the things th-that happen, yeah. But dates… feel different. I don’t know how to ex-explain it.” Bill shrugs his shoulders, feeling a bit foolish as Stan continues to stare. He feels his ears turn pink. After a moment, Stan smiles, eyes softening.

“So take me on one. Show me how it’s different.” Bill’s eyes widen, and his face splits into a grin.

“Re-really?” Stan scoffs, kissing Bill’s cheek.

“Well, maybe. I mean, it’s not like you’ve asked me.” Stan’s obviously teasing, snark clear in his voice. Bill immediately reaches over and plucks a dandelion from the grass, holding it out to Stan.

“W-would you like to go o-on a date with me?” Stan pretends to consider, humming softly. 

“That’s a weed, and it’s probably been covered in bugs and dog piss.” Bill drops it hurriedly, and Stan leans up for a soft, slow kiss. “Of course I would, Bill.”

*

They’d decided on a Sunday date, mid afternoon. Stan would pick Bill up at his place and they’d spend the night there after so Stan’s father wouldn’t suspect, but Bill had insisted upon keeping everything beyond that a surprise, thinking that the excitement would make it more romantic. As he fixes his hair in the mirror for the twelfth time, he wonders if that had been the right move. Stan HATES being unsure about things, and making him spend an entire evening not knowing what the plans are probably won’t end in Bill’s favor. Bill himself is painfully nervous, his stomach churning. His fingers card through his hair yet again, trying to make sure that the redder pieces mix with the brown, as though somehow getting the perfect blend will make this go well. He’s never been nervous to spend time with Stan before, and if he’s being honest, he hates the feeling. 

Stan shows up promptly on time, hair and clothing pristine and neat in a way that looked like it took just the right amount of effort. Bill himself had hurriedly changed from his red flannel to a blue one, and is rushing to button it as he opens the door. Stan laughs at him the second he sees him.

“Did I wake you up? Your shirt is buttoned wrong.” Fuck. Bill hurriedly fixes the buttons as Stan drops his overnight bag inside the door. Bill knows how to fix this, though.

“H-hi. Yuh-y-you l-l…” Bill just groans in frustration, the nerves making his stutter more pronounced. Stan steps closer, hands resting on Bill’s collarbones, gently squeezing.

“I’m listening, Bill.” Stan’s voice is encouraging, without a hint of judgement or annoyance to be found. Bill breathes deep, speaks very slowly.

“You… l-look… nice.” Stan smiles indulgently, leans up for a soft kiss.

“So do you.” The effect of the compliment is somewhat cancelled out by Stan’s fingers nervously brushing the wrinkles from Bill’s shirt, but Bill decides to let that go. He vaguely considers that maybe he should’ve bought Stan flowers or something, but he’s almost certain that would have only made the situation more awkward. Bill needs this date to work out right or he’s sure Stan won’t agree to try this ever again, so he takes a deep breath to steel his nerves and plows forward.

“R-ready to g-go?”

*

It’s been over an hour, and Bill is pretty certain he feels MORE awkward now. He’d spent the entire walk to the Aladdin trying to decide if it was first date appropriate to hold the hand of the person he’d held hands with every day since he was fourteen with no hesitation. By the time he’d decided it would be okay, they had already reached the theater, the moment passed. He’s been debating since they’d sat down if he should put his arm around Stan the way they always did, his mind fighting between what he and Stan are used to, and what’s proper etiquette for a first date. He’s been too keyed up to enjoy a moment of the date so far, and it makes him wonder why he’s even putting himself through this. 

Stan, on the other hand, seems perfectly casual. He’d been typically quiet so far, but he hadn’t once asked Bill where they were going, hadn’t seemed worried that Bill wasn’t as close to him as they regularly were. He’s just sitting beside Bill, calmly eating popcorn, eyes forward on the screen. Bill is almost hurt by that, hoping for ANY reaction from the other boy, figuring that anything would be better than this cold placidity. He stares, searching for _something_ to tell him that Stan wants to be here, when he notices that Stan’s shoulders are tense. Stan’s eyes are on the screen, but they’re not focused, obviously lost in his own mind. Stan is eating the popcorn a little too methodically - Bill notices that he’s counting exactly fifteen chews before each swallow. The panic in him recedes, though that doesn’t soothe him - them both knowing that this date is a colossal awkward failure doesn’t feel much better to Bill than only him knowing, and he sighs sadly. Stan casts a worried look at Bill, then winds their fingers together, tugging Bill up out of his seat, leading him out of the theater. They walk in silence away from the building into the relative privacy of a nearby trail, Stan only speaking when he knows they’re alone enough to have this conversation.

“What happened, Bill?” Bill’s shoulders pull up into a messy shrug, eyes on the ground.

“I-it felt weird. Fo-for the first ti-time, us together… felt we-weird.” Things are silent between them for a moment before Stan speaks.

“Do you think that means we shouldn’t date?” Bill’s heart drops, and his eyes burn with tears. Stan curses and squeezes his hand, immediately turning his head to kiss his shoulder. “Not like that, Bill. I still want to be with you. It’s just… everything about this date has felt so serious and formal, like we had to try so hard. What I love about being with you is that it’s just… effortless. I don’t have to worry about what I’m supposed to do or say to make things normal between us. All we’ve been doing today is pretending to be normal and I don’t think we’ve ever been further apart from each other. That’s not just me, is it?” Bill shakes his head sadly.

“N-no. And you’re r-right. I just wanted…” Bill sighs. “I w-wanted to make sure you f-felt like I do. Ruh-romantically. That this isn’t j-just con-convenient for you.” Bill feels terrible saying it, and he expects Stan to be upset. The last thing he sees coming is Stan’s laughter.

“Convenient? Bill, my father is a Rabbi. Having feelings for a Catholic _man_ is the most…” Stan’s nose wrinkles as he clarifies. “SECOND most inconvenient thing that’s ever happened to me. When my parents find out about us, I’m screwed with them. And I still decided to be with you, because I like you. I like how I feel when I’m with you. I like that you never pretend that the scars aren’t there, but they don’t stop you from looking at me the way you do. I like that you open up to me. I know I’m not good with sentimental bullsh… shows of emotion. But the way we understand each other, the way we’re comfortable together? That’s romantic to me. Not trying to imitate some generic thing you’ve seen in a movie.” 

Bill hadn’t exactly considered it that way before. He thinks about all of the time they’ve been spending together lately; cuddling at movies, stealing kisses while watching TV or reading in Bill’s bed. Their early morning bird watching sessions, Stan always making sure they get there before sunrise so that Bill can see the sky change colors, especially on cloudy days when the sun is sure to interplay artfully with the clouds. Their conversations, real and meaningful, neither of them ever avoiding a subject that they feel they need to discuss with someone, always going to one another first. It all suddenly feels incredibly deep. In that moment, he remembers who Stan is - he’s mature, structured, serious. He’s been an adult since they were ten. Romance to Stan would never be some giddy teenage affair. And now that Bill understands the difference, he realizes he doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t need to feel constantly off-balance and uncomfortable with his best friend-turned boyfriend. Their connection is already far too intense to go back to that place now. Their long friendship had made them skip that part, had pushed them forward into something far more stable and solid. Bill couldn’t imagine replacing it with anything else.

“You were right. About the th-things we do already b-being dates.” Stan just laughs, squeezing Bill’s hand.

“I know. I’m right about most things. You should just listen to me from now on.” Bill chuckles in return.

“I w-wouldn’t say that.” Stan tilts his head onto Bill’s shoulder, and Bill releases Stan’s hand, wraps his arm around Stan’s waist instead. Stan hums gently, eyes closing.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure we do have a teen movie romance hidden underneath all of our combined brokenness. I mean, there’s nothing more typical than the nerdy best friend and the sporty cool guy winding up together, though that only really happens when the nerdy best friend is female.” Bill laughs into Stan’s hair.

“Th-there’s also the st-straight laced guy with his he-head on his shoulders getting sw-swept away by the free sp-spirited artist. Though that on-only really happens when the ar-artist is female.” The flirtation between them is easy, comfortable. For the first time tonight, Bill feels like he’s actually on a date. “I w-was going to take you f-for a malt. After the movie.” Stan snorts derisively.

“What do you mean you WERE going to? This date is finally starting to get good, Billy. I’m not letting you give up on it now.” Bill’s face splits wide into a grin, and Stan kisses his jaw. “Next time though, you have to tell me where we’re going. Because it was killing me not to ask.” Bill kisses the top of Stan’s head, his heart beating fast, more sure than he ever has been that he’s in love. And more importantly, more sure than he ever has been that Stan is willing to love him in return.

“We’ll p-plan it together.”


	14. Thirteen

Stan keeps a journal. It’s little more than a plain navy notebook, hidden beneath his mattress where any other boy his age might keep their stash of dirty magazines, unlabeled and bare. Utterly inconspicuous. Its beginning pages are littered with diagrams and schematics - a layout of the sewer, the configuration of the standpipe, a sketch of the map Ben had put on the projector in Bill’s garage. After that, a list of all of the different forms he’d been told that the Creature took on, as specific as possible. And finally, the most detailed account he possibly can come up with of the events of that summer. He’d had to guess on some things - he’d done his best to try and remember some of the names of the “missing” kids, though most were listed as “Boy 1” or “Girl 3”. The orders in which they’d gone missing had grown foggy in his mind, but he’s not sure which details will eventually be important, so he’s not willing to decide that anything is insignificant enough to leave out. He’s had to recopy the notes dozens of times, each time he remembered or realized a new detail about the pattern of murders - anyone else could’ve written it in the margins or annotated at the end, but Stan had tried to and the disorganization had made him want to scream.

Stan is aware that he still thinks about It more than he should. One could argue that thinking about It at all was more than you ever should, but Stan knows he needs to. Because It isn’t dead. He isn’t sure quite HOW he knows - he’d been there with the others watching the Clown crumble like aged paper, watched Its shattering body fall backward down that well - but he knows. At first, he knew because he still saw Her everywhere - She’d be standing in the corner of his bedroom every night, walking along the sidewalk next to Mike, petting Richie’s hair. He’d hear the sound of chaotic flutes floating through the halls as he tried to concentrate in class, one look around the room confirming that no one else had even heard the noise. He’d known he was cracking up, known he was going crazy, and he’d _known_ that It hadn’t died. 

He’s more stable, now. He’s not cracking up, he’s not going crazy. But he still knows that the Creature isn’t dead. It had put on a good performance, but Stan is an expert at pretending, knows all about fooling the other six Losers into believing something. And once his mind had cleared, once he could go back through the details without crying and screaming and clawing at the healed scars on his cheeks, he’d easily seen the farce. The Clown had realized that It was losing the upper hand, and It had let them beat It up, all the while inching them closer and closer to that well. He’d researched standpipes at the library, once he’d felt stable enough to really think. There was no reason for a well to be inside of a standpipe. There was no logistical explanation for the well to be there - the standpipe itself was supposed to have a large tank of water. Stan could guess that the tank was beneath the pile of trophies the Creature had taken, but he still saw no reason for a well inside the structure.

The well raised new questions for Stan the more he’d thought about it. Had the Creature built the well when It had arrived? Did the well lead directly to the sewers the way the one in Neibolt had, the way wells aren’t fucking supposed to? If the building had really been erected for fire safety and protection the way a standpipe typically is, why hadn’t it been used in the Black Spot fire? Was it really just a structure built by the townspeople so that they wouldn’t have to see the unnaturally glowing grotto of broken toys and floating corpses? He imagines the townspeople staring blankly into the faces of children they’d once loved as they built the walls around them, hiding them from polite society. He wants to believe that it wouldn’t have happened, but he knows better. They’re complicit. Stan hasn’t figured out how, exactly, but every adult in this town is. He hopes to any God who will listen that it’s brainwashing.

As much as Stan doesn’t want to, he thinks that while the six of them are still here and the Creature is resting they should go down that inconvenient well and see where it leads. See how far the rabbit hole goes, see what they have to prepare for. Mike had seemed open to the idea when Stan had brought it up, but Richie had jovially brushed him off without a second thought. _”It’s dead and gone, Stan-O! Just let it go, man.”_ Stan knows It isn’t, thinks Richie knows too, beneath all of his bravado. But Richie isn’t willing to accept it, and Stan isn’t willing to go down there unless it’s all six of them, even if It _is_ sleeping. He doesn’t bother to ask any of the others.

He doesn’t want to have to think about this, but he can’t afford not to, not while his head is clear. They’ve got barely 23 years left now, and he knows they’ll all start to Forget more and more as they get older. This is the peak time to figure out as much as possible and just hope the knowledge comes back when they all have to. Because he’s made a promise, sworn that he’ll come back. He’s not sure if he can keep that promise without knowing what he’s up against. Especially not if he and Bill don’t manage to make it that long. He can imagine himself refusing to return if he’s alone, or married to someone on the outside, someone who makes him want to forget. He can’t imagine looking into Bill’s pleading blue eyes and telling him that he’s breaking his promise. He can’t imagine having to look at the scar on his palm every day knowing that he’d let Bill down. Especially knowing that Bill would never make it back home to him.

He’s tried to channel that fear into figuring the Monster out, understanding It, but he doesn’t think it’s helped him in the slightest. All he knows is that the Creature was much more nuanced than he’d realized before. They’d all understood that Pennywise was using their fears: clowns, the flute lady, germs, Georgie… But Stan hadn’t understood just how subtly It had behaved to get the best of them. The painting in his father’s office was hideous, and it did scare him, but every time he saw it he was putting back a book in Hebrew that he couldn’t read moments after being berated for not reading it properly. The portrait had his failure to make his father proud practically ingrained in its paint. And every time he saw it, he faced his obsessive compulsive failure to handle the slight asymmetry of the painting’s face. When She had appeared, Her face was much more deformed, so much more _wrong_ than the painting was, the Thing deliberately triggering his OCD to weaken him further, unconsciously reminding him of his weakness when it came to his father all the while. 

It had attacked Eddie with germs, sure, but It had done much worse. It had attacked him with sex, with _sexuality_. The Leper had made him associate sexuality with pus and disease and rot, and then had chased him straight to the Clown. The Clown who had called him by Richie’s special pet name for him, made him associate _Richie_ with sexuality and pus and disease and rot. The cracks It created in their bond were small, but they still haven’t healed completely. The closeness the two boys had once shared has never fully repaired itself - Richie still shamelessly flirts with all of them, and Eddie seems to hate when the flirting is directed at anyone but him. But when Richie flirts too much with Eddie, the smaller boy balks. It’s a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and the more Eddie runs, the more likely it becomes that the two best friends will end up on different coasts for University, a missed connection that both of them think about constantly until they don’t anymore, until they forget that they’ve ever even met. Tiny cracks.

It had kidnapped Beverly knowing that she was the only one not afraid of It, knowing that It wouldn’t be able to eat her. It had practically _lured_ them down into the sewers after her with that message on her wall. Of course It had known that Ben and Bill both had feelings for her, and that those feelings would spark a natural competition and mistrust between them. Of _course_ It had known that Ben would care more, that Ben would save her the way that he did… The way that shouldn’t have worked, unless It had allowed it to. It had probably even known that she would choose Bill anyway, driving the wedge even further between them. Tiny cracks.

It had used Henry to isolate Mike - Mike who had barely just joined their group weeks before, Mike who hadn’t even really heard of any of them before that day. It had gotten Mike away from them and then attacked him, made him feel alone and unsupported, as though he was expected to be there for them, but they wouldn’t do the same when the time came. It had gotten Stan alone, but It hadn’t killed him - It hadn’t so much as cracked his eye sockets or orbital bones. The connective tissue in his eyes should have been severed by Her teeth, but it wasn’t. He’d felt the suction around his face, and he knows his eyeballs should’ve popped like grapes in Her mouth, but they hadn’t. She was careful, because She wasn’t intending to kill him. She’d wanted him to see the Deadlights. She wanted to make him stop trusting the others. Make him feel isolated from them. Tiny cracks. 

He doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he assumes the Creature deliberately set things in motion that way. He wonders if maybe this is all part of Its game, if every 27 years a ragtag group of misfits with their heads in the clouds mistake themselves for heroes and endeavor to kill It. Maybe It convinces them they’d won the same way each time, allows the groups to feel successful so they let themselves grow up, forget, and leave Derry behind for It to feed upon again. They couldn’t kill It as children. Maybe only adults can. Maybe that specific group of adults, every time. So maybe, the game is to make sure that even if the adults remember, they won’t come back for each other. 

He imagines The Losers as adults now, just crossed forty. Richie will probably have smoked so much that he can’t run a flight of stairs anymore. Eddie will be unhappily married to a shrill, domineering woman. Would he come back, knowing that Richie is probably there waiting for him? Mike can’t leave his family’s farm, but will he resent all of them for ditching him in this town alone? Beverly will come - Bev is fearless, and strong, and she’d never break a promise. Ben will come back the second he remembers that she’s there, though part of him will know that he’s not the one she’s most excited to see. She’ll be a beautiful, graceful forty - she’ll look barely half her age, but in a way that is clearly natural, good genetics combining with her inner fire in the way few people are lucky enough to embody. Bill will look at her with _stars_ in his eyes, the way he’d spent all of **that** summer looking at her, and a rift will start between he and Stan that won’t heal even if they both survive and decide to go home together. Stan will resent both Bill and Beverly, even if nothing happens between them, just from seeing how dumbstruck Bill is sure to be over her. Ben will silently hate Bill for always being the golden boy who gets all of the attention. They’ll all be more afraid of seeing one another than they are of seeing the Clown… At least, until It starts to kill them, one by one.

Stan himself will be terrified if he returns to Derry. He wishes he could be more certain, wishes he could say a proud, definitive “ **WHEN** the way he knows he’s expected to, but he just can’t do it. He thinks that, most of all, is why It had let him survive the sewer. His fear, his paranoia. If he comes back, he’ll make the group weaker just by being part of it. If he doesn’t, the Clown will use his absence to torture the others. It’ll pretend to be him, maybe, to hurt them. Or just tell them that he was already dead. Stan can’t say for sure that he wouldn’t be. He’s not suicidal _now_ \- in fact, he’s the farthest from it he’s been in years. He supposes that may be why he’s thinking so hard about this - he wants to survive, wants to _live_ , and he didn’t fight his way all the way back to this point to just lay down and die before he hits fifty. But if he Forgets, and then he gets the call… He imagines himself alone in an apartment, getting Mike’s call. Realizing in a quick succession that he’s about to die, that he’ll have to face Her, that he’ll have to see Bill again, that he’ll have to see Bill see BEV again. The thought makes his heart clench.

Stan forces himself to shake off the image. He’s got 23 years before he has to worry about It killing them, or about Bill remembering that Stan is invisible when standing next to Beverly’s fire. For now, he’s got a date to get ready for. The Clown and Its effulgence are hibernating. Beverly and her radiance are safely in Portland. And without either of the two here to distract, Bill wants to take him to an art museum. He’d promised no abstracts, and Stan had promised that he didn’t care if there were, as long as they’d been painted with at least a modicum of skill. It isn’t quite true, but Stan would rather watch Bill look at art than look at art himself anyway. He lets go of all thoughts of what might happen to them in the distant future, clears his mind. He’ll have all of Bill’s attention for tonight, for every night for a long while. Beyond that is beyond his control. He lets it be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those of you who were all in for the fluffy times forever. xx


	15. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: Rating has been changed from Mature to Explicit to better reflect forthcoming sexual themes. Sorry if anyone is offended by that, but I wanted to give you a heads up before anything major happens so anyone who isn't comfortable can avoid. Thank you, and now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Bill hates going home without Stan. 

Part of that is because he hates going _anywhere_ without Stan. The boy’s presence never fails to make Bill happier, even when Stan himself is feeling negative. On Stan’s good days, Stan is playful and snarky, and constantly makes Bill laugh. On his bad days (and, in spite of the pills and their friends and Bill’s support, there ARE still bad days) Bill can’t focus on anything negative himself, too busy looking for things around them that he thinks will bring Stan’s mood up, pointing them out to the sullen boy. Even if what Bill is showing Stan doesn’t make Stan happy, the effort still makes him smile, and Bill never feels more valued than he does when he’s gotten a hard-won smile from Stan.

When Stan comes home with him, the place feels warm and alive. They’ve gotten into the habit of hanging out with the others for a while after school, then going back to Bill’s place to eat dinner together and do their homework. After… After was a toss-up. On Stan’s good days, they’d barely be getting Bill’s bedroom door closed before Stan was in his arms, greedily taking the deep kisses that they couldn’t give at school and Stan was still too shy to take in front of their friends. Stan’s fingers are long and graceful, and they still shake when he undoes the buttons of Bill’s flannel shirts, and sometimes just the memory of those fingers on his bare stomach starts a familiar tugging in Bill’s groin. On Stan’s bad days they simply sit in bed together, side by side, pressed close, Bill sketching in one of his notebooks, Stan reading an ornithology book beside him. There’s nothing sexual about those times, but it still feels intimate, and Stan being there next to him feels like _home_ in a way that nothing else ever has before.

The days that Stan can’t be there with him, the place feels empty. Without Stan’s warmth beside him, distracting him, he can see the house for what it really is. Dusty walls, bare of any photos or personal touches to make it really feel welcoming. A kitchen with a dinner table that hasn’t served any family meals in months. Georgie’s old room, now an office that hadn’t been used since his father had stopped coming home. His mother still lives there, but she walks through the halls like a ghost. They haven’t spoken in weeks - he’d tried, for a while, but she’d refused to speak back to him. Looked at him, _through_ him, like he wasn’t even there. She knows he’s still there - there’s still enough food in the cupboards for him, and she hasn’t tried to clear out his room - but she doesn’t make him dinner anymore, doesn’t do his laundry. The last time he’d gotten sick, she hadn’t so much as offered him a cup of soup. Being in a house with her is worse than being alone, and it makes him ache for Stan to be there, making even the quiet moments in this cold place feel warm.

*

Bill has gotten very adept at sneaking into the Temple on Friday nights after school. He’s still pretty uncomfortable about the main chapel area, but once he’d managed to get in a few times that way, Stan had given him a spare maintenance key to come through the back entrance. He still has to be careful that the Rabbi doesn’t see him, but there’s much less risk of that now. He walks into the room Stan is in, watching the boy intently staring at the book before him, mouthing words in Hebrew, brow furrowed as though he knows he’s getting them wrong. It’s an exceptionally cute picture, especially when he remembers the state he’d found Stan in the first time he’d snuck in like this, almost two years before. One look at Stan solely focused on his reading is enough to make Bill sure that She isn’t here for Stan anymore. He closes the door quietly behind him and Stan’s head shoots up, only for his face to relax into a smile when he sees that it’s only Bill. The reading sits forgotten on the desk as Stan greets Bill at the door, the two sharing a few soft, chaste kisses, neither willing to do more than that in a place of worship.

“As happy as I am to see you, I _really_ can’t talk much tonight. I have to practice my reading for Yom Kippur.” At Bill’s confused look, Stan gives him a small smile. “The annual Jewish holiday for apologizing to God for everything you’ve done to make yourself happy over the whole previous year. I’m probably supposed to start with the part where I invited my boyfriend to make out with me in the chapel when I should’ve been practicing my reading.” Bill laughs, and Stan lets out a pleased hum, indulges himself in one more soft kiss. “I know how stupid it is, believe me. It’ll really embarrass my dad if I don’t get this right, though. I have to practice.” 

Stan goes to sit back down at the desk, and for a moment Bill just stares, watching Stan’s mood fall again as he studies. The whole group had realized that Eddie’s mother had made his anxiety worse, with the placebos and the germophobia and the isolation. But it had taken until this moment for Bill to place that Stan’s father had done the same with Stan’s OCD, shaming him when things weren’t perfect, making Stan feel worthless when everything wasn’t just so. It seemed like in Derry, you either got a parent who looked through you or micromanaged you to the point of mental instability, and Bill honestly isn’t sure which is the better option. He goes to kiss the top of Stan’s head gently, then sits on the floor next to Stan’s chair, opening his backpack.

“I j-just want to do my h-homework here. I won’t bug you.” In spite of Bill’s words, he mostly just watches Stan mouth his way through the words again, hand running through his neat curls in frustration, mussing them. The boy chews his bottom lip agitatedly, and Bill’s jeans tighten.

“I can’t figure this out. I’m just going to mess it up again.” Stan’s voice is almost anguished. Bill immediately threads their fingers together, rubs his hand on Stan’s thigh reassuringly. A memory crosses his mind, a moment almost exactly like this from about a decade ago. 

“D-do you remember when I f-first started speech therapy?” Stan groans in clear displeasure of being interrupted, but Bill presses on anyway. “You came over t-to my house and sat there for hours j-ju-just listening to me try to get through o-one fucking page of tongue tw-twi...twisters.” Stan squeezes Bill’s hand as he struggles for the word, but still looks horribly put out by the story.

“I remember, Bill. What’s your point?” Bill isn’t at all deterred by the frosty reception. Stan gets like this when he’s stressed out, and he’s more than used to it by now, knows not to take it personally.

“You sh-should read out loud to me. It might help it f-flow more naturally.” Stan’s eyes soften, and the iciness in his voice gives way to something gentler.

“You have better things to do than sit here and listen to me choke over the pronunciations of words that you won’t even be able to tell if I got right.” Stan is still arguing, but it’s weak now. It’s the voice he uses when he badly wants you to do something, but is giving you an out because he knows you won’t enjoy it. Bill knows that voice well, has learned to ignore everything it tells him to do.

“You had better th-things to do than sit there and li-listen to me choke over the pr-pro...nunciations of Dr S-Seuss.” Stan gently runs his fingers through Bill’s hair, and Bill smiles.

“No I didn’t, Bill.” Bill kisses Stan’s wrist, and Stan pulls his hand back slowly, picking up the book again and starting to read, aloud this time. Bill has homework that he needs to do, knows he’ll regret leaving it for the weekend if it means he can’t go have fun with their friends, but it feels more important right now to keep holding Stanley’s hand, to keep all of his attention on the other boy. Stan messes up more than a few times, trips over the words in a way that Bill can only tell by the frustration Stan shows when it happens, but Bill is there to squeeze his hand and smile comfortingly every time, the way Stan had always done for him. It takes the better part of an hour, but Stan finally gets through the page without messing up the words, and the serene smile on his face is all the payment Bill will ever need - though the kiss he’s pulled into doesn’t hurt either.

“I wish I could just come home with you tonight.” Stan’s voice is a sigh against his lips, and Bill’s own happiness falters.

“Can I c-come stay at your house?” It’s a loaded question, and they both know that. Stan’s father doesn’t like Bill, hasn’t since Stan announced that they were going off to college together, and has made it very clear that he doesn’t want his son spending any time with “that _boy_.” Stan hasn’t listened, but it’s very different to bring “that boy” to the Rabbi’s house, flaunt it under his own roof. In a way, they’re already flaunting it under his roof right here in the synagogue.

“You’d have to sneak in, late, after they check on me. You couldn’t talk at all and I probably couldn’t even kiss you and you’d have to sneak back out before breakfast. That wouldn’t even be worth it, right?” Bill isn’t sure by Stan’s expression if Stan wants him to say yes or no. He honestly considers it. Being hidden, sneaking in and out of Stan’s window like an unwelcome predator, being sworn to silence and forbidden from so much as using the bathroom in the hall lest he be caught. Or going to his own place, to the dead empty house with his dead empty mother and his dead empty room that only feels like home when Stan is in it with him. Wherever he has to go, whatever he has to do, if his choice leads him to fall asleep in Stan’s arms in the end, he’s more than willing to take it.

“I w-want to. If that’s okay.” Stan smiles, kisses Bill’s lips.

“I want you to.”

*

Bill is almost nervous as he approaches the Uris’ house late that night, sans bike. He’d left it at home so none of the neighbors would see it out there, but he’s not sure if that’s enough to keep them from noticing, never really having thought about it before. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen to Stan if his father really knew about them. When he approaches Stan’s window, it swings open almost immediately, Stanley’s hands grabbing his arms and tugging him in, worried eyes on the street around, making sure there weren’t any people passing by who might have seen anything. It makes Bill uncomfortable, and part of him wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have come at all. 

When the window is securely shut and locked Stan faces Bill, grabs both of his biceps a little too tightly, then gently kisses his lips, eyes scared but determined. The kiss itself is barely there, just the tiniest brush of lips, but knowing what it took for Stan to do that in this house makes it one of the best kisses Bill’s ever gotten. At Bill’s house, it’d just be an affectionate greeting. In Rabbi Uris’ home, it means so much more. Stan is telling him, in the only way he can right now, that he’s happy that Bill is there. That his presence is significant. It’s exactly what Bill had been missing at home, why he’d decided to come here in the first place, and it makes all of the sneaking around worth it. Stan is never comfortable making gestures, and they’re usually awkward when he does, but this one had hit the mark perfectly. 

It’s not that it means _more_ than usual because he’d gotten it right - Bill loves the awkward attempts just as much, because either way Stan is doing it for HIM. It’s the effort Stan is making with every one of those gestures to show Bill that he cares, how he’s feeling. He realizes he’s incredibly lucky to have this beautiful, patient boy in his life, the boy who always TRIES for him, even when it isn’t easy or comfortable for him to do so. He thinks he’s always taken Stan for granted in a way - he’s never thanked Stan for the hundreds of nights Stan had spent helping him practice his speech therapy, never a hint of judgement or boredom in his eyes at hearing the same page stumbled over for multiple days in a row. For being the only person who’d never gotten annoyed of hearing him stutter through a sentence and just started to guess the word he was trying to say instead of listening, or told him to “spit it out, Buh-Buh-Bill!” For always going out of his way to make Bill feel important, even in times when he knew he was anything but. He wishes he could tell Stan how much all of those things have meant to him, but he knows he’s not allowed to speak now. 

Stan takes Bill’s hand and leads him to the bed, both boys lying down as quietly as they can, not wanting the sound of bedsprings to give them away. Stan cuddles close to Bill’s chest the way he’s gotten used to when they share a bed, cheek nuzzling Bill’s collarbone. Bill presses his jaw to Stan’s forehead, inhales deeply, takes in the clean scent of Stan’s shampoo. They can’t talk, which would be awkward if it were early evening, but the late hour and the sound of their combined breathing is soothing, lulling both boys into a comfortable drowsiness. Stan’s breathing begins to even out against Bill’s chest, and Bill lets his own mind slow down, allows Stan’s warmth to relax his body. _Home_. As long as Stan is there with him, he’s home. Bill’s lips curve into a soft smile, and he relishes in the feeling of being wanted and cherished and _loved_ as he falls asleep.


	16. Fifteen

Stan has started to hate being home.

He’s almost certain that his parents know something about the change in he and Bill’s relationship. His mother can barely look at him without tearing up now, clutching a hand to her mouth as though she’s trying hard not to cry at a funeral. His father constantly expresses his displeasure with the idea that Stan is always running off with “that _boy_ ”, has tried everything short of threatening to kick him out or cut off his medication to get him to stop spending time with Bill. Those threats would be empty, and they both know it. Stan knows his father would never do anything that would drag his own name through the mud, and having a homeless mentally unstable son wandering through the streets of Derry would definitely qualify. 

Sometimes, he just wants to tell his father everything - maybe not about the Clown, but everything else. How he’d been alone and beaten down and bullied and hopeless before Bill came into his life, even just as a friend. How he’d stolen a bottle of Eddie’s pills once and downed the entire thing, had sat on the bathroom floor waiting to die for hours before realizing it wasn’t going to happen, feeling so betrayed by LIVING that he’d gone hysterical. How close he’d been to jumping off the metaphorical ledge before Bill had wrapped him in his arms and pulled him back to safety. The spiteful glares he gets from the man tell him that it wouldn’t do any good, though. He used to think that his father would rather he have killed himself than start a relationship with Bill, and he’s more sure of that now than he ever has been. He thinks, had his father known what happened **that** summer, the Rabbi would wish he’d never made it out of the sewer. Missing kids aren’t an embarrassment to their parents. Missing kids don’t kiss other boys.

_Dead kids aren’t an embarrassment to their parents. Dead kids don’t kiss other boys._

Stan’s hands shake so hard on his bottle of Prozac that the pills inside the container rattle. He doesn’t trust himself to open the bottle right now. As much as his OCD hates the change in schedule, he skips his dose.

*

The losers are playing hide and seek in the barrens when Stan has the chance to talk to Bill alone. Richie is IT, and in typical Richie fashion is taking this more as an opportunity to do terrible voices and terrorize Eddie, so it seems like the perfect time to sneak off. While Richie is staggering around and doing his worst Igor impression (or possibly a halfway adequate Gorbachev, Stan can’t be sure), Stan grabs Bill by the arm and pulls him aside, far enough away from the others that they won’t accidentally be overheard. Before Bill can ask, Stan kisses his lips softly, pulls his pill bottle from his pocket, and slides it into Bill’s hand.

“I need you to open that for me and give me one. And I need you to keep them with you for a little while. Please.” Bill is stunned into silence for a moment, worry clouding his features. “We can talk later, I promise. I just need this right now, okay?” There’s an edge of pleading to Stan’s voice, and Bill must hear it, because he does as he’s asked, giving Stan one of the pills from his bottle before pocketing the rest himself. The second Stan has swallowed the tablet Bill is kissing him, too hard to be pleasurable, arms squeezing around Stan’s body too tightly to be comforting. Stan returns the clutch, breathing deep, feeling the affection for what it was. Bill was grounding him, anchoring him to the world. Making sure he didn’t float away. If he didn’t need the embrace, he’d have probably been annoyed by this moment. Instead, he just lets himself sink into Bill’s arms, forgetting about his family and the woods and their game, everything melting away except for the strong, solid boy holding him in place.

*

They walk in silence back to Bill’s house, hands intertwined tightly. Stan knows that Bill wants to ask, but Bill is letting him take it at his own pace, letting Stan come to him when he’s ready. They can both hear the slight rattle of the pill bottle shaking in Bill’s pocket with every step, and it does nothing to soothe either of their nerves. Stan only speaks when they’re in the safety of Bill’s house, the privacy allowing him to open up.

“I… I’m just not having the best time. At home.” Stan knows he’s started in the middle of a conversation, but the understanding in Bill’s eyes makes him know Bill is on the same page.

“I-is it Jewish stuff again?” Bill gently pushes Stan’s coat off of his shoulders, hangs it by the door. Stan is immediately comforted by the almost easy domesticity, suddenly yearning for college to just hurry up and GET here, wanting nothing more than to be alone in their dorm room together, his parents thousands of miles away. He allows himself a break from the conversation to wrap his arms around Bill’s neck, presses his lips to Bill’s for a few slow, easy kisses, smiling a little when Bill abandons removing his own jacket to slide his arms around Stan’s waist. Stan sinks into the hug for a moment, then sighs and raises his hands to Bill’s shoulders, pushing the jacket off, Bill letting him remove it and hang it on the hook. Stan tries his hardest not to think of this as _undressing_ Bill Denbrough, but the moment the words cross his mind he gets an image of himself doing so. His cheeks get red, and the warm heat of _need_ spreads out through his belly. He ignores it.

“Not exactly Jewish stuff. But… I think they know. About you. Well, about me. And how I feel for you.” Bill’s eyes are grave, uncertain. He doesn’t know exactly what it’s like to be raised the way Stan was, but Stan had told him enough over the years to make him worry. 

“Is everything o-okay? Ca-can I do so-something?” Stan can’t help but smile a little at Bill’s concern, though he knows there’s no energy in it.

“There’s nothing to do. They can’t really force me to change what I’m doing without causing a scandal for themselves, and they care too much about appearances for that. Though I do get the feeling that they wish I were dead most of the time.” Stan doesn’t really realize that the thought hurts until he hears a choked, broken laugh ring out in the room and realizes that it came from him. Bill is on him in a heartbeat, hands stroking through his hair, body pressed close, eyes almost begging.

“St-stay here. Move i-i-in. Don’t l-leave.” Stan’s instinct is to laugh the words off, but the way Bill is looking at him makes it very clear that this isn’t a joke to him. Insane or not, Bill means every word he’s said. It makes Stan feel loved, but also so guilty it hurts.

“No. No, Bill. I don’t want our… relationship… to be like that. Just about you saving me from everything all of the time.” Bill actually laughs at that, but it sounds tired.

“It’s not. You’ve s-saved me plenty too, and besides, we’re ab-about so fucking much more than that and you kn-know it.” Bill kisses Stan’s lips, gives him a serious but hopeful look. “You do, right?” Stan kisses Bill again, presses their foreheads together for a moment, breath mingling between them. His emotions are still a jumbled mess, and he doesn’t really know how to verbalize exactly what he feels for Bill, but he hopes Bill can see it in his eyes. Bill’s hands shake in his hair as Bill pulls him in for another kiss, deep and intense, and Stan knows that Bill had understood.

“I know. You know I do. I just… I don’t want you to always feel like you have to take care of me. I don’t want that to come between us, and if I’m always broken, I’m just going to become… a burden to you. Or a project for you to fix. And it’ll ruin what we have.” Bill looks at Stan for a long moment, like he’s trying to read something from his expression. Stan isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he seems to find it, sliding his hand into Stan’s, tugging him toward the stairs.

“Co-come on. I want to show you some-something.” They pass Bill’s door, go straight to Bill’s parents’ bedroom. Stan makes to protest, but Bill just opens the door and tugs him inside, letting go of his hand at the door. Stanley stands awkwardly in the doorway while Bill approaches his mother. “H-hey mom, I’m gonna smoke an e-eightball of crack and jump o-off the roof. Want to come?” Stan chokes, eyes bugging out. The woman lying in bed doesn’t so much as look up from the television. Bill pokes her cheek, and still no reaction. Stan’s eyes fly to the television, always paranoid, expecting to see the familiar brunette televangelist surrounded by her circle of dead children, encouraging other kids to play in the sewers, brainwashing their parents. Instead, he sees a smiling news anchor warning the residents of Derry about the upcoming snowstorm.

He wonders how much longer he’s going to blame Pennywise for the adults in this town. The Losers had loved a girl that they’d only really _known_ for a few months enough to risk their lives going down into the sewer to save her. Stan isn’t sure he and Beverly had even spoken more than a few words directly to one another before that day, and he’d still braved the sewers for her - they all had. And yet these people, the ones supposed to love and protect them, get constant excuses made for them because of the fucking Clown and It’s fucking power over them. He’s tired of blaming a Clown that he faced death at the hands of for his father’s constant disapproval, Eddie’s mother’s smothering, Richie and Bill’s parents’ neglect. He steps further into the room, grabs Bill’s hand, and silently pulls him away, leading him to Bill’s own room, closing the door behind them. Shutting everyone else carefully outside. They’re quiet for a while, just staring at one another before Stan speaks.

“I wanted to believe what was wrong with the people here was the Clown’s brainwashing. But it isn’t, is it? The Forgetting… it’s not supernatural, it’s not magic. They’re scared, and they’re selfish, and they made themselves not see It. They didn’t fucking forget, they’re just ignoring It. They’re looking right fucking at It and ignoring It. They CHOSE this, and that fucking Clown just took credit.” Stan is angrier than he can ever remember being, bitter tears stinging at his eyes. Bill just sighs, shrugging.

“I don’t kn-know, Stan. I do-don’t know what the Clown was, o-or what It did, or what’s wr-wr...wrong with our parents. I don’t t-think about that. All I know is that it’s b-better for me when you’re here. I didn’t ju-just ask you to s-stay to help you or fix you o-or whatever el-else you think. I n-need you here. _I_ need _you_ , Stan.” Stan wraps his arms tight around Bill’s waist, and Bill pets his hair, kisses his temple. Stan thinks about what things would have been like at home without the Clown, and part of him knows that his parents would have been exactly the same. His protests about leaving get weaker.

“If I stayed here, my OCD would drive you crazy. I’d need drawer and closet space, and if I was sharing with you, all of your clothes would have to be organized exactly the way I need them to be or it would bother me. Your books, too.” It’s less of an excuse to leave, more just a warning of what Bill should expect. Bill obviously understands, kisses Stan’s temple.

“You already arrange my books. I don’t m-mind. Change an-anything you need. It’ll get us both use-used to this stuff somewhere familiar f-for us before we dorm together at c-college anyway.” Bill kisses Stan’s cheekbone, and Stan unconsciously tilts his head upward, fingers fisting in the back of Bill’s shirt.

“When I have bad days, there won’t be anywhere to hide. When we fight, we’ll still have to be together all of the time.” Bill kisses the corner of Stan’s mouth.

“I don’t want us to hi-hide anything from each other. And when we f-fight, we’ll always be to-together so we can just make up fa-faster.” Stan laughs softly at Bill’s reckless idealism, heart pounding wildly in his chest. It’s the polar opposite of everything Stan is. He thinks he might be in love with it.

“I’m not ready to have sex with you. Not yet.” Stan’s breath quickens. This is the part he’s most afraid of, what he’s most insecure about. He’s not sure how long he’ll need before he’s ready, and he’s not sure how long Bill can wait. There’s no way to plan for this, and without a plan, Stanley flounders. Bill just brushes their lips together, innocent and sweet.

“I kn-know. And that’s okay. I can w-wait.” Bill blushes pink, gives Stan a painfully earnest look. “I w-want you. I know you know that. B-but I want our f-first to be special. Because we’re special. And it wo-won’t be if you’re not ready a-and only doing it because you th-think you have to.” Bill kisses Stan again, incredibly chaste, and Stan’s smile stretches wide across his cheeks. Wider than he can remember smiling in a long time.

“You know, me not being ready to sleep together doesn’t mean you have to kiss me like we’re in second grade.” Stan’s voice is teasing, and Bill laughs as Stan brings their lips together again, deeper than Bill had. Stan licks at Bill’s bottom lip, his stomach flipping with nerves as he does, and Bill lets him in, allows him to control the kiss this time, only taking enough leadership to guide Stan’s inexperienced tongue when the lack of practice makes his movements messy. Their conversation about Stan moving in isn’t forgotten by either of them, but is placed on hold, paused to let them focus on their tangle of limbs and tongues, hands stroking bare skin beneath shirts, groins pushing together far too often to be accidental, but not often enough to be a rhythm. Stan’s relief that he actually _likes_ this rushes through him, and before he realizes what he’s doing his lips are on Bill’s neck, sucking below his throat hungrily, feeling the skin vibrate against his lips with Bill’s ragged groan. When he pulls back and sees the hickey on Bill’s neck, he’s almost mortified, but the look in Bill’s eyes staggers him. Lust, tenderness, happiness… hope. He kisses Bill’s lips again, softly this time, feels Bill’s smile against his mouth. 

It takes Stan an embarrassingly long time to place that the unfamiliar emotion unfurling in his chest is more than just a reflection of the hope in Bill’s eyes, but when he does, the last thing he wants to do is let it go.

*

Stan is in his own room the next day, quietly and meticulously folding laundry. His mother used to do it for him, but she’s stopped in recent weeks. He’s almost glad for it - she’d always folded everything wrong, and he’d always had to unfold every shirt, iron the _wrong_ creases out of the fabric, and refold everything the way he liked it. It took more time than necessary, and he’d always hated it. His father walks in without knocking, glares at the backpack half-stuffed with clothes sitting near his pillow.

“Where do you think you’re going, Stanley?” Mr Uris’ voice makes it clear that he knows the answer to that question, but Stan feels the need to answer anyway.

“Staying a few nights at the Denbroughs. Maybe longer, I haven’t decided yet.” Stan pretty much _has_ decided, but he doesn’t think rubbing it in will make this situation any better, so he keeps that to himself.

“We’re moving, Stanley. All of us. To Castle Rock.” The tone in his voice is final, leaving no room for argument. A twinge of fear starts churning in Stan’s stomach. “You’ll get over this little phase when you’re away from that _boy_.” The scared child in Stan cowers, relents, submits. The adult he’s becoming steels his shoulders, hardens his eyes, and looks up.

“I’m not leaving until college. You and mother can move wherever you want, though. Good luck.” Stan’s father shakes his head.

“You’re not eighteen yet, Stanley. You can’t make that decision. We’re leaving for your own good.” The fear intensifies. Stan thinks for a wild moment that, if It were here, this would be what It’d choose to most scare him. It would’ve let him flounder and struggle for four years to find his place, only to take everything from him as soon as he felt like he was standing on solid ground again. It would’ve let him reconnect with his friends, let him start building this foundation with Bill, let him stop seeing Her every time he opened his eyes in the morning, only to come back and destroy everything he’d worked so hard for. He’s finally let go of the future he’d seen in the lights in the back of Pennywise’s throat for the hope he’d seen in the blue of Bill’s eyes, and this would be the ideal time to devastate him. As soon as he really started to care again whether he lived or died. _’This isn’t the same thing,’_ Stan’s mind argues. _’Stop blaming the Clown for things It didn’t do. Stop giving them a free pass.’_

Stanley isn’t good at standing up for himself in any situation. He capitulates to bullies, he doesn’t fight back when women from paintings attach themselves to his face, and he doesn’t say no to his father. He can fight when the others are with him, but when he’s alone, he falls in line. Submits. He refuses to let that happen this time. Because even though it’s only he and his father in this room, he knows he’s not ever really alone. He’s got Eddie’s fire, Beverly’s fearlessness. Mike’s quiet strength, Ben’s self-assuredness, Richie’s reliability. He’s got Bill’s optimism. They aren’t his to keep, but they’re always there, building him up. He’s not sure what he brings to that team yet, but he knows he can borrow from all of them until he figures it out. When he speaks, his voice doesn’t even shake.

“You could force me. Legally, I couldn’t stop you. But you’d regret it for the rest of your life, because I’d ruin you. You’d be taking away my best friend, boyfriend and emotional support all in one. I’d be devastated. Mentally unstable. A spectacle.” Stan’s lips twist into a wry smile. “And there will be other boys in Castle Rock. Tons, I’m sure. I promise you, what I do with them won’t be nearly as subtle as Bill and me are. Is that the reputation you want for yourself? For your _wife_?” The threat is empty, and Stan knows it. Knows he couldn’t let another boy touch him the way Bill does, that he’d probably end up a pile of bones and blood at the bottom of a bridge without his friends. But his father doesn’t know him well enough to recognize the lie, and the man swallows hard, fear and hatred shining in equal parts in his eyes.

“You’re no longer my son.” The words sting, but somehow make Stan feel freer than he has in a long time. He realizes he’d been waiting for this to happen for months, since the day Bill had first kissed him. Maybe before then - even before Stan had begun to realize he liked Bill, he’d always subconsciously known that one deviation from his father’s plan, one stubborn show of free will, and the man would deny him. He knows he’ll be emotional about this later - he’ll cry and scream and shake with mourning - but right now, he just feels… flat.

“You’re no longer my father. But we all have our parts to play, don’t we?” The words are almost bitter on Stan’s tongue, and they feel final. There’s an almost imperceptible nod from the Rabbi as he walks out of the room, a silent agreement. Donald Uris would continue to play the Doting Father, Stanley the Dutiful Son. His medicine would still be paid for, his bedroom would be maintained. In exchange, Stan would continue to stumble through readings at Shabbat, would still put on his kippah and attend every service asked of him, play nice with his mother and father for the congregation. But there would be no more family dinners. No more road trips. His college would probably even be paid for, but only as a blackmail, a way to get rid of the embarrassment. Behind closed doors, they were less than strangers.

His brain tries to rebel, tries to remind him of the good times. His mother cleaning his cut knee when he was four, wiping away his tears. His father proudly announcing to his friends Stan’s achievement of making First Class Boy Scout younger than anyone in the history of his troop ever had before. Other memories push at his mind to replace those, though. His father immediately dismissing his scouting accomplishment the very next day, always pushing for _more_ and _better_ , how nothing was ever good enough for Donald Uris until it stopped being enjoyable, until he resented being forced to do it. Him crying to his mother about the poorly stitched up gashes It had left on his face, only to have her shrug like she didn’t even see the wounds and schedule him an appointment with his psychiatrist. 

It isn’t easy to leave the good memories behind, and he thinks he never will. He’ll always hold onto them somewhere in the back of his mind. But there’s been a distance in the Uris family for a long time. _’Since Pennywise’_ , his mind tries to convince him. But Stan is done blaming Pennywise for The Forgetting. His mother had **chosen** to distance herself from him, to protect herself from having to really SEE the scars on his face, remember what scars like that meant. His father… His father had probably always been like this. But Stan isn’t the same as he used to be, isn’t a child who’s biggest fear is disappointing his father. He’s grown past that now, with or without The Rabbi’s consent. His Bar Mitzvah had been a pageant put on for his father and Pennywise; today, Stan actually feels like he’s become a man.

Stan finishes folding his laundry, packs a few more articles of clothing in his backpack, careful not to scrunch them in a way that would ruin his perfect creases. He puts the pack on his shoulders, walks silently out to his bike, and starts to pedal his way home.


	17. Sixteen

They’ve been living together for two weeks when Bill finds the notebook.

Well, Bill thinks they have, anyway - Stan has slept over every night for the past two weeks. Stan has brought some of his things, and has insisted upon taking up some of the household chores. Stan has even tried connecting with Bill’s mother, offering her coffee or dinner when he’s made it, though Bill thinks Stan is likely on the verge of giving up on that now from lack of acknowledgment. They’re still trying to get used to organizing their things together, and Stan’s OCD doesn’t always make that easy - Bill tries, but it has taken him more practice than he’d expected it to. Stan had warned him it’d be difficult, but Bill had been so sure he’d easily conquer this challenge that he’d almost brushed off the warning. It hasn’t been nearly as easy as he’d hoped, but he thinks he’s getting there. They’ve even dusted and sanitized every room of the house besides Bill’s mother’s bedroom, made it all comfortable to Stan’s needs. 

What Stan _hasn’t_ done is what confuses Bill. He hasn’t brought over much more than the bare essentials - a few changes of clothes, some toiletries, a couple of books, an iron. Barely any of Stan’s possessions are here, and it makes it difficult for Bill to imagine that this is more to Stan than a glorified sleepover. Stan hadn’t ever actually said he was moving in, and Bill is too afraid to bring it up, not wanting to chase Stan away if he’s still deciding, not wanting to end up back where he started, alone in this empty house without Stan there to make him happy. He figures that Stan will come the rest of the way when he’s ready - Stan NEEDS to do things at his own pace, on his own schedule, or else they make him uncomfortable - and Bill can handle waiting.

Bill is flipping the mattress (though he doesn’t know what that even DOES, Stan had insisted that it be done anyway) when he finds the nondescript navy notebook tucked neatly into one of the corners of the bedframe. If he’d known it was Stan’s, he wouldn’t have touched it to begin with. But Stan had only been there for a few weeks, and Bill has always had a habit of losing notebooks in dark corners of his room, only to find them months later, half full and waiting to be re-explored. He abandons the cleaning for a moment to flip the book open eagerly, wondering how old it was, expecting to find stories or drawings of his from years ago. 

The first page makes him stop cold. It’s a drawing, but it definitely isn’t his. It’s not done with any skill - It looks like little more than a giant anthill surrounded by floating plus signs - but Bill would be able to tell anywhere what the drawing represents. His mind immediately sinks into a memory of Its lair so vivid that he swears he can smell the dank rot wafting from the precarious piles of decrepit toys and decaying hovering corpses. His first panicked thought is that he needs to hide this again before Stan sees it, assuming that it HAS to belong to Mike or Ben - they’re the ones who care about the history, they’re the ones who have always wanted to study what It did. He flips forward a few pages to see which of the two it belonged to, and his stomach drops when he sees Stan’s neat handwriting covering the pages. He suddenly remembers a slew of random, offhand comments Stan has been making about It recently - not afraid, per se, but It was never too far from his mind, either. He feels like he should’ve noticed this sooner. 

Bill knows he should put the book back where he’d found it, or even bring it to Stan, discuss it together. Instead he sits down on the bed alone and reads everything, seeing the words but not feeling them, a buzzing sort of numbness taking over as he flips the pages. There are a handful of missing kids listed before Georgie, but that’s the only entry he really cares to see. “George Elmer Denbrough, age 6, taken on…” Bill chokes back a sob. The date is listed, but there’s a hesitation mark at the beginning of the day, as though Stan hadn’t easily been able to remember the exact one at first. And though Bill can remember every detail of the day itself as though it happened only hours ago, he’d forgotten the exact date until seeing it on the page. He feels like he’s betrayed Georgie in some way, and he’s sick to his stomach over it. He wants to stop, wants to put this fucking thing away and pretend he’d never seen it, but he reads on. 

Remarkably few of the children listed “taken” have names - there’s Georgie, and someone listed only as “T. Daniels, pubescent female”. Patrick Hockstetter is listed by full name - Bill supposes it would be difficult to forget someone who tormented all of them as much as Patrick had - but the date is listed only as an approximate, and there’s a small note: “Unsure if taken by the Creature, or killed by Henry Bowers.” A few of the children have notes like that. “Corcoran, preteen. Missing under mysterious circumstances.” “Corcoran 2, teen. Stepfather confessed to murder, but confessions can’t be trusted here.” Bill realizes somewhat guiltily that he couldn’t add any more details about these people if he wanted to. Missing, but not missed by anyone. Forgotten. 

After the emotionless obituaries, Bill moves on to the recap of what had happened to them that summer. He’s even more surprised as he reads the thorough account - he can’t be sure if he’s Forgotten all of these little details Stan has written, or if he’d never known them to begin with. Had Stan’s fear and OCD made him hold onto every bit of what happened, or had Bill just not been _listening_ when the others had told him what they’d experienced? Had be been so desperate for it to just be over that he’d let go of all of these specifics that Stan seemed to think were so important? There’s no way to know, and Bill feels like a bad friend anyway.

He’s hurt again when Stan’s notes mention a meeting with Mike and Richie to discuss going down the well into what Stan seems to consider “Its REAL lair.” His surprise that Stan would be willing to enter a dragon’s den knowing that the dragon could still be lying there and wake up at any moment is overshadowed by his jealousy that Stan had consulted Richie and Mike instead of him. He remembers six of the seven losers outside of Neibolt, remembers Stan and Mike taking Richie’s side against him, a smaller team within their group. He’d thought that it was an unintentional divide, just them trying to stop the fight, but it obviously wasn’t. The three of them were the skeptics, the realists, the ones who most wanted NOT to deal with It. And, Bill supposes, they’d remained a trio even after the final battle. _’Not final’_ , his mind taunts. _’Stan can obviously admit that. Why can’t you?’_

When Bill finishes reading, he stares dumbly at the last page, not moving. He’s the one who had asked them all to promise to come back, but he doesn’t want to _think_ about it between now and that time, and finding out that Stan does hurts in a way he can’t place. It’s irrational, Bill knows, but somewhere deep in his chest he recognizes the emotion. He feels _betrayed_. Betrayed by Stan forgetting the day Georgie had been killed (though part of his mind knows he’s really mad at HIMSELF for forgetting). Betrayed by Stan holding these secret meetings with Richie and Mike, excluding Ben and Eddie and Beverly and worst of all, HIM. Stan had agreed that Bill would lead their little group of misfits when everyone else had, but Stan obviously doesn’t believe that Bill can save him, or doesn’t trust that he WILL when the time comes. Both options hurt equally badly, and the pain makes a spike of anger run through him. It’s the worst possible time for Stan to walk in, but of course he does. Stan’s obviously about to say something, but one look at Bill on the bed, teary eyed and holding the notebook, changes his tactic some. He sits down on the bed next to Bill, gently pressing his shoulder to Bill’s, eyes concerned. His voice is soft and vulnerable when he speaks.

“You can ask me anything about that and I’ll answer honestly.” Stan hates his emotions being exposed like this, and Bill knows it. Knows that Stan is forcing it to be okay for him in this moment. Usually Bill treasures moments like these, treats them with kid gloves so he doesn’t end them too quickly. He can’t bring himself to care about that right now. The bitter sound that rips from his throat is halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“Wuh-what is there to a-ask? Why you’re ob-obsessed with the fucking Clown? Why you’re p-poring over something that makes you goddamn mis-miserable because misery is the only fuh-fucking emotion you feel comfortable with?” Bill is aware he’s hysterical. Stan takes a very deep breath, folds his hands in his lap. He knows this a defense mechanism for Stan, to overcorrect his posture and position into something rigid and proper when he feels like he’s losing control. To his credit, though, Stan is still trying to reach out.

“It’s not about that, Bill. It’s about the promise we made. I don’t think we can make a survivable plan against It unless we know everything we can and start planning _now_. Because when we get that call in 23 years, it’ll already be too late to talk strategy.” The answer is perfectly reasonable, but Bill’s mind still rebels. Stan wants to talk this strategy with Mike, with Richie. Not with him. Stan wants to keep this stupid fucking notebook in _his_ bed. The notebook with Georgie’s date of death hesitantly scrawled, not special in any way, just one name on a list of many. The notebook containing all of the times he’d failed to save all of them - he’d sent Georgie outside, he’d let Eddie and then Richie get separated from him in the Neibolt house, he was too late to stop the Clown from taking Beverly, he’d lost track of Stan in the sewers… He’s yelling before he even realizes it.

“A s-su-survivable p-plan like what? Your strategy last ti-time of fucking off and r-ruh-running away didn’t exactly save you, did it?” Bill knows it’s unnecessarily cruel the second he says it, sees all of the openness in Stan’s eyes fade away into something hard and cold. Bill scrambles to fix it, but Stan is speaking before he can even stutter one word out, voice scathingly vicious.

“And what do you want us to do in 23 years, Bill? Stomp into Neibolt unprepared with no strategy and no weapons besides the power of fucking positivity and sunshine again? That didn’t work out so well for Eddie or Ben last time, did it?” Bill almost retches as he remembers the unnatural bend of Eddie’s broken arm, the wide ragged gash across Ben’s belly. Hears Stan’s shrill voice screaming, almost echoing in the open sewer. _’You left me, you made me go into Neibolt!’_ and _’I hate you’_ blend together in his mind. So much blood, so much fucking blood on his hands. Bill is weak right now, and Stan could easily finish him off - Bill has seen Stan do it to others hundreds of times, his wit dry and vicious and completely emotionally detached. He waits for the final blow.

It never comes. Stan very clearly could comment further, very clearly WANTS to, but he forces himself to hold it back, instead just sighing, shoulders drooping. He gets up from the bed without another word and leaves, Bill listening as his footsteps retreat down the stairs. Bill clutches the notebook tightly between his fingers and _cries_ , tears flowing harder than they have in a long damn time. He’s not sure what he’s crying for - Stan, Georgie, everyone he’d been unable to save that summer. The unnamed forgotten boys and girls in Stan’s book. The unnamed forgotten boys and girls who had escaped Stan’s memory before he was even able to memorialize them as “Girl 16” or “Boy 24”. The fact that, no matter how he thinks things _should_ be or _should have_ gone, the Clown isn’t fucking dead and he knows it. He weeps for all of it, for everything. 

When he’s done weeping for that, past when the sobs are dry and he’s got no more tears left to give, he cries for the relationship he’s probably ruined, for the elusive boy he’d spent so many years trying to gently court only to mess up and scare him off when he’d almost finally had him. His heart clenches at the thought of it. He _can’t_ lose Stan. He refuses to. He needs Stan too badly to let that happen. Stan needs him too - he knows that, in spite of Stan’s protests when Bill tries to take care of him. But he doesn’t think Stan needs him half as much as he needs Stan. 

He normally tries to avoid overt sentiment with Stan, knowing how uncomfortable it makes him, but now doesn’t seem like the time to hold back. It seems like the time to lay it all on the line, to show Stan what Bill really WANTS them to be, to show Stanley that they could have a real future if Stan doesn’t give up on him now. He opens the notebook to the very last page, grabs a pen from his nightstand, and begins to draw.

*

Bill’s drawing is done about forty minutes later. It isn’t his most detailed work, and the page is slightly smudged with the last few tears that had managed to escape, but he thinks it’ll have to do. He shoves some shoes onto his feet and rushes down the stairs, hoping he’d given Stan enough time to calm down, already thinking of ways to convince Stan out of the Uris’ house so they could really talk this out. He’s more than a little surprised to see Stan perched at the kitchen table instead, a giant mug of tea in his hands, a bird book lying open on the table in front of him though he’s obviously not even really looking at it. Bill feels some of his hope return. Stan had _stayed_. They’d fought, and he hadn’t run away. Bill can only think that it’s a good sign.

“Y-you’re still he-here.” The relief and wonder in his voice are palpable. Stan still doesn’t look incredibly happy with him - his eyes are tired and red, and the scars dotting his face are covered with angry red fingernail scratches - but all of the anger and fight have obviously left him. Stan lets out a long-suffering sigh, voice flat.

“Of course I am. I live here, Bill.” The gentle reminder of what Bill had been so worried about before he’d found the book is almost funny to him, but he holds back the insane burst of laughter, not thinking that now would be the best time to release it. “I’m sorry. For what I said. I was trying to talk to you and you hurt my feelings and… I said what I thought would hurt yours back.” Stan’s words sound grating and forced, but he’s obviously being honest - sharing is hard for Stan, though, and Bill has always known that. He knows that, if he does things correctly now, they can move forward from this. He can work them toward the place he wants to be again, the place where Stan WANTS to tell him everything first, and believes that Bill will listen and understand, not get over-emotional and react the way he had this time. He knows he has to work on that too, but he can’t unless Stan gives him another chance.

“It’s m-more my fault than yo-yours.” Bill can’t say that it’s not Stan’s fault at all, and Stan seems to appreciate the honesty. “I ju-just freaked out wh-when I saw it. Esp-especially when I saw the part ab-about G-georgie.” Stan nods gently, seeming to understand.

“I can see how that would be upsetting, if you weren’t expecting it. I should have warned you.” Stan sips from his mug slowly, then looks at Bill. His nose scrunches almost imperceptibly, but he holds the mug out anyway, offering Bill a sip. Bill knows that the idea of sharing a cup like that disgusts Stan, but he’s gotten good at reading Stan’s gestures, and he knows exactly what this one is. An offer of intimacy, even while Stan is upset with him. Too upset to kiss him, or hold his hand, but not so upset that Bill should worry that they’re over. He takes the glass and sips the cold chamomile tea. It’s his least favorite, but he couldn’t care less what was in the cup. Stan had given it to him as a peace offering, and under that circumstance he’d have drank anything he’d been handed. Stan takes the mug back and takes a sip himself - he obviously hates drinking after Bill even though their tongues have been in each others’ mouths, but them both sharing this is the point of the gesture, and Stan has already committed to it. He sets the cup down next to his ornithology book, then marks his page and sets that aside too. Bill pulls one of the chairs around so that it faces Stan without a table being between them, then sits, Stan shifting to face him as well. 

“I-is it still okay if I a-ask questions?” Bill needs to know so many things about the notebook still clutched between his fingers, and he hopes he hasn’t lost his chance to ask. Stan nods silently, and Bill continues. “Why… Wuh-why do you keep that book? I know th-thinking about what happened up-upsets you and that you w-were scuh-scared for a long time. But you’ve been tr-trying so hard not to be d-de-depressed and I just… don’t underst-stand.” Stan’s lips turn up slightly at the corners, though it isn’t quite a smile.

“Beverly suggested it to me, actually. At least, sort of.” Bill’s surprise must show on his face, because Stan smiles a little, shaking his head. “No, BIll, we don’t talk that much. A few letters a year, maybe. But… I thought she would understand.” Bill’s mind snaps back instantly, _’And you thought I wouldn’t?’_ , but he holds it back. Moments later, when Stan speaks again, Bill is glad for his impulse control. “Because she saw them too. The Deadlights. But after I explained how I felt, she said it sounded like I stole a page from her therapy journal. The Clown... It stalked me constantly, always knew where I was, what I was thinking. It made me feel weak, completely powerless. That day, in the sewer… When It got me, I had no control of my body anymore. She attacked, and She made me look into Her Deadlights, and I just… wanted to die. It’s like I could see myself from outside my body, lying there, being consumed, but there was nothing I could do to save myself from it. It took something from me personally that It didn’t take from the rest of you, and no matter how hard you try to understand, there’s no way for you to really _know_ how that feels. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I should have screamed louder or fought harder or done SOMETHING to make It stop, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do.” Stan’s voice grows softer as he speaks, more uncomfortable as he shares more of his secrets with Bill. Both boys are crying, slow fat tears streaking down both of their faces. Bill has never felt more useless than he feels right now - he’s a fixer, and there’s nothing he can do to fix this. No monster to fight, no dragon to slay. Stan sighs and tilts his hand palm-up on his thigh. Bill immediately reaches out to take it, squeezing his palm like a lifeline.

“It’s not the same as what happened to Bev, I know, but… when I told her, she understood somehow. She’s been telling me what her therapist tells her, because I can’t talk to mine about what happened in the sewer. She told me I should try to write down what happened, to sort through my feelings about it so I could figure out how to heal. And that I should try to find a way to get my voice back. To find my own power. She said it helped her. When I started to write everything down, new details kept coming to me, things I hadn’t remembered or thought about before, and… It probably sounds stupid, but the more I thought about it all, the less It scared me. It became less mysterious, I guess, and I think the unknown of It is what scares me. Because the more unknown It is, the more things It can do that It SHOULDN’T be able to do, and the shouldn’ts are what really mess with my mind. They’re too abstract for me. The only way for me to feel strong is to know everything I can about what It is, why It does the things It does, how to stop It. A defense for myself to make sure I’m prepared next time. If I don’t feel confident… when, we come back, I’m going to be useless against It. Worse than useless, a burden.” They both hear the way Stan’s voice gives out on the word “when”, but neither boy mentions it. “It kind of feels like, if I don’t do this, I’m just laying in the water waiting for It to come back and finish the job.”

“Th-that’s not true, Stan! You’re n-not stuck there, you g-got out and moved forward. And y-you aren’t useless. You’re lo-logical and practical. You make us all th-think about things bef-before we rush in. You went through a l-lot in the sewer and y-you’re still standing. Even when th-things got tough, you didn’t g-give up or let It w-win. Do you k-know how insp-inspirational that is? That’s fuh-fucking _important_ , Stan. Especially when pe-people are scared.” Stan’s smile is weak but gentle, and he squeezes Bill’s hand. Bill raises Stanley’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “I wish I co-could promise to take ca-care of you, but I’m not good at that.” Stan just scoffs.

“You’re great at that, Bill. You can’t blame yourself for not knowing exactly how to beat a demon Clown when you were thirteen. None of us knew, and it wasn’t your responsibility to have all of the answers. Even though I know you hate it when you don’t.” 

“Th-then why don’t you come to me with this stuff? Why j-just Mike and Rich?” Bill really wishes he could just let that go, but he can’t. It would constantly nag at him, and he’s sure that the wondering will make him more insecure than whatever Stan will say.

“Richie and Mike are… more cautious than you are. You’re…” Stan is obviously trying to figure out how to say this delicately, and the fact that he thinks he has to do that doesn’t make Bill feel great about whatever adjective he’s about to be given. “Optimistic. And I’m pessimistic. Both of those things make it impossible for either of us to be objective about anything. Mike and Richie are better judges of situations than either of us are. You know that, too. You’re just hurt because... you’re my boyfriend.” Stan makes a pained face, gives Bill a wan smile. “And that means I’m supposed to come to you with things first, doesn’t it? Even if you’re not the person best suited to figure it out. That’s something that dating people do and I messed it up.” Bill shakes his head.

“I don’t w-want you to come to me be-because you think you _h-have_ to be-because we’re dating. I wi-wish you’d come to me because you truh-trust me most. Even if I’m not the o-one who can figure it out, e-even if I’m too optimistic. I wish I was the fi-first person you wanted to tell things to.” Bill feels needy and clingy for even saying it, and part of him wonders if what he’s asking for is even reasonable. It sounds like way too much now that he’s said it. Stan leans closer, his desire for distance between them obviously fading as Bill trades insecurities with him. His eyes are gentler than anything Bill has ever seen.

“You ARE the first person I want to tell things to, Billy. When I find a new bird, or I’m having trouble with a creative writing assignment, or I’m just having a shitty day and want to vent about it, you’re always the one I come to. I just… I have trouble figuring out what you have to be told and what you don’t need to know sometimes. Usually, if I have a specific problem and someone else can solve it, I just… go straight to them. I’ll try harder, but I don’t know how to tell the difference.” Stan’s voice is completely honest and raw. Bill runs his thumbs up Stan’s wrists, sighing softly.

“How ab-about we try this? When you’re ta-talking about It, I want to be pa-part of those talks. And when so-something else comes up, instead of let-letting myself get upset, I’ll try to remember that you d-don’t mean it personally and just… ask to be i-in-included.” Stan smiles gratefully, and his eyes close for a moment, reveling in Bill’s acceptance of even his negative traits, the tension leaving his face, calmness replacing it. Bill just watches, eyes soft and fond. He’s hesitant to break the newly regained comfortable silence, but he raises the notebook gently toward Stan, lets go of his grip on Stan’s fingers to let Stan take the book from him. “I added some-something. I hope you d-don’t mind. In the very back.” Stan flips to the last page and his eyes widen a little, in both surprise and confusion.

“What is this for, Bill?” Stan’s fingers trace the lines of the drawings hesitantly, as though he’s afraid he’ll smudge them though they’re in ink. On the page are little sketches of the other five losers, he and Stan not included. The sketch of Ben looks more like it’s wearing earmuffs than headphones, the one of Beverly is based off an old sketch he’d done of her almost five years prior since Bill barely remembers her face anymore, and his desire to get Eddie’s “loVer” cast next to his head almost makes his arm look amputated, but they’re still good enough to make it clear what they’re supposed to be.

“For if we start to Forget. So you can re-remember the Losers.” Stan smiles in spite of himself, shaking his head in amusement.

“You forgot to draw yourself, Bill.” Bill takes a deep breath, heart thudding in his chest. He knows he’s pushing his luck, but at this point, he doesn’t care.

“No I didn’t. You’re n-not going to forget me be-because I’ll still be there. The whole time.” Stan’s smile turns a little melancholy.

“It’s not going to happen tomorrow, Bill. It might be ten years before we really forget.”

‘Y-yeah. That’s what I me-meant by ‘the whole time’. Whene-ever it happens, Stan. I’m g-going to be there.” Bill’s voice is firm, and he knows that Stan can tell he’s serious. Stan clearly doesn’t believe it’ll actually happen, but there’s a moment of raw, unadulterated _hope_ in his eyes that shows Bill that Stan _wants_ it to, wants it just as badly as Bill himself does. As long as that hope is alive, Bill knows he can get Stan to believe. Someday.

“Can we just go lie down for a while?” Stan’s voice is weak and tired, his hands gently flipping the notebook closed. “I did too much emotion today, I can’t deal with any more. Please.” Stan’s voice shakes on the ‘please’, and Bill immediately nods, leaning over to kiss Stan’s forehead. 

“I’ll g-go and get a clean sh-sheet on the bed. C-come up when you’re done down here.” Stan nods, and Bill gives him an encouraging smile before heading upstairs himself. He really shouldn’t have enough time to change the sheet in the time it would take Stan to rinse his mug and straighten the chairs, but he knows that Stan will need a few minutes to calm down before coming to him, hating when other people saw too much of his emotion, just the action of other people witnessing his feelings making him feel even more out of control than he did from having the emotions themselves. He fluffs the pillows carefully, makes sure his sketchbooks are organized neatly on his desk the way Stan likes, then sits on the edge of the bed and waits the last few minutes for Stan to come upstairs. When Stan arrives, he’s holding the notebook in a white-knuckled fist. His eyes dart toward the corner of the bed questioningly, and Bill nods, encouraging.

“Y-you can put it back there. It’s o-okay.” Stan does, careful and delicate, like the book is precious to him in some way. Bill has never felt a connection like that to any of his sketchbooks, but he understands that this is so much more to Stan. They lie down in bed together wordlessly after that, Stan curling up against Bill’s chest, Bill’s arms wrapping tightly around him. Bill presses a kiss to Stan’s hairline, then another to his forehead, gentle and soft.

“I said no more emotions tonight, Bill.” In spite of Stan’s words, he doesn’t even sound upset, body nuzzling closer to Bill’s, face pressing against his neck. Bill smiles against Stan’s eyebrow.

“I’-I’m not doing anything.” Bill kisses Stan’s browbone, then the scar at his temple. Stan’s lips quirk into a smile against his neck.

“I hate you so much.” In spite of Stan’s words, he’s still smiling as he raises his head up to press a tender, lingering kiss to Bill’s lips. His eyes are still tired, and overwhelmed, but there’s a happiness there behind it all that Bill never wants to stop seeing. “Feel better, Bill? Did you get all of the attention you needed to make you stop bugging me and let me sleep?” Bill leans up for one more quick kiss before speaking.

“Me? I was juh-just laying here. You kept headbutting my m-mouth.” Stan actually laughs, just a little, before snuggling his face back into the crook of Bill’s neck. Bill can’t be completely sure, but he thinks he feels a feather-light kiss pressed to his collarbone as Stan’s eyes close, eyelashes fluttering against Bill’s jawline.

“Go to sleep, stupid. Good night.” Bill grins, his own eyes closing.

“Goodnight, b-beautiful.” A huffy sigh against his throat. Stan’s voice is dry and flat, but still somehow sounds affectionate.

“I will punch you in the stomach, Bill.”


	18. Seventeen

Stan has lived with Bill for three weeks, and it’s made him constantly tense. 

It’s not Bill’s fault - Bill has done (nearly) everything right since the day Stan had arrived. Bill has cleaned for him, he’s rearranged for him, he’s tried to be as accommodating as possible. They’d had a rough patch about the notebook, and what its existence ultimately signified for them, but Bill had been incredibly supportive since then. He’d even drawn Stan a more detailed picture of the inside of the standpipe, and had gotten a map of the sewer system from the library - they’d discovered that it didn’t match Stan’s rough sketch at all, and that the tunnels below the town were much more extensive than documented in the city’s plans. Neither knew what to DO with that information, but just having it made Stan feel more prepared and stable, and Bill had been nothing if not supportive of that. Bill is ALWAYS supportive.

Which makes it so frustrating for Stan that it can’t ever just be _good enough_. Bill’s notebooks are always off-center on his desk, Bill just balls his socks up like a savage before placing them in the drawer. And worst of all, Bill’s shirts are ALWAYS out of order in the closet. Bill tries - he stacks his books in a neat, sturdy pile on the desk. He’d watched Stan’s sock-folding technique with the attentiveness of a scientist multiple times. He’d practically _studied_ the way Stan had organized their clothes in the closet the day he’d brought most of them over. And yet nothing he does is exactly right, exactly PERFECT. 

Stan has tried his hardest to ignore the problems. He’s tried his best to just get Bill to let him put the clothes away himself, to busy Bill with cooking or scrubbing or something that doesn’t involve things having to be placed _just so_ , but Bill is stubbornly insistent upon doing it himself. And he always does it wrong. Every single time. It’s always out of order, and it’s always out of order in a different way - a red flannel mixed in with the grays, a baseball shirt hung on a hanger when those all get folded and put into drawers, a teal flannel mixed in with the greens when teal is _clearly_ a transition to blue, something that his artist boyfriend obviously should’ve known. Stan knows that Bill would keep trying if Stan kept gently correcting him on the things that aren’t perfect - Bill is just LIKE that, a fact that Stan adores about him, even if he doesn’t tell him nearly enough - but Stan doesn’t want him to. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t WANT to want him to. 

He’s always loved Bill’s room the way it is. It’s homey, and comfortably messy, and while Stan has occasionally reorganized Bill’s bookshelf or picked a sweater off of the floor, he’s never needed it to be THIS pristine. But he’s had a stressful month - his parents had found out about his sexuality, and he’d had to leave home. He’d moved in with his first boyfriend ever - it had always been the plan for them to live together eventually, but Stan hadn’t expected it to happen until college. They were still months away from that, months of mental preparation that he hadn’t gotten to do before this happened. All of the changes have made him feel out of control, and when Stan doesn’t feel control over the big picture he hyperfocuses on every miniscule detail, trying to manage everything he DOES have power over. He hates every moment of it, but the harder he tries to fight the compulsion the worse his attitude gets, and he doesn’t want to put all of that stress on Bill.

When he’d moved in, he’d told Bill that he hadn’t wanted their relationship to constantly be about his mental health problems. And sometimes, it feels like his mental health problems are all they ever think about. Bill still has his pills, and every time he gives Stan one in the morning, it’s as if they’re starting the day off automatically focused on OCD and depression. Bill doing something simple like organizing his own clothes, something that shouldn’t have to involve Stan at all, is something Bill has to look at him for approval on. And something that, no matter how hard Stan tries, he can’t give honest approval TO. And he knows that, if he keeps _telling_ Bill that it isn’t perfect, it’ll take a toll on their relationship. Bill doesn’t want to believe it will, but Stan knows how terrible it feels to constantly be told that no matter how hard you try, you’re still not doing enough. He doesn’t want to put Bill through that. Bill is his sanctuary AWAY from that, and he doesn’t want to bring Bill into that world with him, doesn’t want to see the easy joy in Bill’s eyes fade as he overthinks every tiny detail of every tiny task. 

To that end, Stan had learned to just smile and nod. When Bill looked at him for approval on the incorrect arrangement of his shirts or the primitive fold of his stupid socks, Stan would just smile and nod and watch the happiness settle onto Bill’s face. And later on, when Bill was downstairs cleaning the dishes, Stan would go in behind him and rearrange everything the PROPER way. It isn’t ideal, but that isn’t Bill’s fault. Stan knows it’s his own fault, his own PROBLEM. The OCD has never been this bad before, and all he wants to do is keep Bill as far away from the issue as he can until he’s able to gain control. 

*

Stan is fixing Bill’s shirts in the closet again, wondering how in the world he could possibly fuck the organization up so badly with only five hangers left empty between each laundry day, when Bill walks into the room. Bill’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and Stan feels GUILTY, like he’d been caught being unfaithful rather than just moving a few hangers around. For a long moment they just stare at one another.

“I th-thought you said I had it.” Bill is the first to break the silence, eyes squinted, like he’s trying to figure something out. Stan can already see some of the happiness leaving them, and he instantly hates himself just a little bit more.

“It wasn’t… I was just looking for…” The lie doesn’t come easily, and Stan just gives up on it, sighing. Bill looks disappointed now.

“Don’t lie, Stan. I can h-handle you telling me it’s wr-wrong, but I don’t want us to ever luh-lie to each other. Why didn’t you j-just tell me it was wrong?” The look in Bill’s eyes is entirely earnest, almost hopeful. He clearly believes that one day he’ll get it, that it’ll be perfect if only Stan tells him the right way enough times. Stan remembers himself feeling that way once, almost a decade ago, and tears start to burn in his eyes. He wills them not to fall.

“Because it’s never going to be RIGHT, Bill. Nothing you do is ever going to make it right. There’s always going to be something out of place, something that’s folded up wrong or spaced improperly or mixed in with the wrong colors. It’ll always be wrinkled and asymmetrical and crooked and _wrong_ , and that isn’t your fault and you shouldn’t have to deal with it and I don’t want to make you feel stupid for not being able to hang a fucking shirt where my fucking delusions WANT you to hang it! The pills are supposed to _help_ OCD and they’re not working, I’m still like this. I’m always going to be like this and I hate it. I hate it, Bill.” His voice breaks on the last word and he tenses up, hating showing weakness like this. Bill comes closer and Stan flinches away from him, knowing that if he lets Bill hug him right now he’s going to cry. Bill holds out his hand instead, and Stan takes it, linking their fingers together, trying to school his breathing.

“You c-can’t judge that from this s-si-situation, Stan. Moving in w-was a big change for you. Buh-big events l-like that always make you f-focus on the little details for a wh-while. But once y-you’re comfortable, you al-always bounce back. You know you do.” Stan does know that, and he usually isn’t this upset by his breaks. But this time it involves Bill, and Stan is so _tired_ of being broken in front of Bill. He cares about Bill, and he cares what Bill thinks of him, and something insecure inside of him wonders how long BIll will be able to stand the drama. How long it’ll take for Bill to give up on him and start trying to figure out a delicate way to get himself out of this situation. He briefly mulls on the idea that Bill could just choose a different college - they’d applied to a few together, and it would be easy enough for Bill to put hundreds of miles between them without Stan realizing it until it was too late. It’d be so easy for Bill to leave him again and never look back. He’d given up his family and his entire life plan for a boy who could leave him at any moment - he doesn’t think Bill would do that to him, but he COULD, and the thought hurts to even consider. He has to force it away.

“I just don’t want to be like this. I’m so TIRED of feeling this way all of the time. Everything here was so comfortable before I moved in and now it all looks like such a mess all of the time. And I know it isn’t, I know it’s just in my head, but knowing that it isn’t real doesn’t change anything.” _’It was real enough for…’_ Stan regrets the wording the second he remembers the Clown, and he can tell that Bill notices the slip. Neither of them mention it.

“I-it’ll get comfortable again. You know t-that. I know there’s so-something in your head th-that tells you things are out of order, and that you h-have to listen to it. But you don’t have to luh-listen to the voice that tells you it won’t ever get better. It will. I’ll h-help you.” Stan just shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

“There’s no way for you to help. You can’t do any more than you already have to make the picture in my mind real, because you can’t see it. I just don’t want things to be like this. I don’t want to micromanage you, I don’t want to make you fucking miserable. I don’t want to _be him_ , Bill.” Stan sucks in a desperate, shaking breath, and Bill immediately moves closer to him, dropping Stan’s hand and hugging him tightly. Stan lets out a weak protest, knowing the comfort will send him over the edge, but the moment his face hits the pocket of Bill’s flannel he’s crying against it, clutching him close, sniffling gently.

“You’re n-not like your father, Stan. You’re ne-never going to be.” Bill rubs his back, and Stan snorts in disbelief.

“You can’t just say that and make it true. I know you want to believe it, but…” Stan just trails off, too weak to continue. Bill’s voice is almost stubborn.

“I _k-know_. There’s muh-more to you than your OCD. Y-you’re warm, a-and you’re funny, and you ha-have a big heart, even wh-when you try to hide it. Yuh-you’re a good listener and a g-great friend.” Bill kisses Stan’s forehead, but Stan just shakes his head, cheeks rubbing against Bill’s shirt. “Y-you wouldn’t have stood up to him if yuh-you were like him. Have you e-ever seen him fuh-follow his heart like you did? Your heart is what ma-makes you different. I know that’s scuh-scary and being scared makes you f-fall into patterns, but we can g-get through that. To-together, if you let me h-help.” Stan sighs, but all of the fight is gone from him now. He’s not crying anymore, but remains leaned against Bill’s chest for support.

“How? I can’t figure out how to make you get this right, Bill. I’ve tried.” The words sound rude coming from his mouth, but he’s too tired to care. “You’re too artistic to be organized.” Bill grins against his forehead, then pulls back.

“G-great idea, Stan!” Stan gives Bill a long-suffering look as Bill leads him back to the closet, gesturing to the flannels hung there. “I-is everything where you w-want it now?” Stan gives the items a quick check-over to make sure Bill interrupting his organization hadn’t left anything unplaced.

“Everything but the one you’re wearing now.” Stan gestures toward the empty hanger. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Bill grabs a sketchbook and some colored pencils from his desk, pulling the desk chair closer to the closet and sitting down. He draws a large #1 on the page, eyes earnest and on Stan.

“Show me the sh-shirts, in order. Please?” Stan sighs. He’d still rather just do this himself, but if it’s this important to Bill that he be involved too, Stan supposes he can work on it with him. He pulls the first flannel out, tries to force some energy into his voice when he speaks.

“Okay. First is the darkest red. They go in a gradient like the rainbow, if that means something to you artistically.” Bill writes the words “dark red” on his page next to the number, then grabs a few colored pencils from his case, sketching a quick, messy square of the flannel. It isn’t the most artistically gifted drawing, but it’s a surprisingly accurate representation of the colors and pattern. When Stan finally understands what Bill is doing, he almost laughs. “You know that will become completely useless when you get a new shirt, right?” The words are teasing, but there’s undeniable warmth in Stan’s voice for the first time since they’d started talking about this. Bill grins sheepishly up at him.

“We’re going to co-college soon. I won’t b-be able to a-af-afford new shirts.” Stan leans down to kiss him softly.

“You can write freelance and there are so many paid internship options out there for people in mathematics programs. We’ll make it work. Together.” Stan kisses Bill again, gently touching Bill’s jaw. 

“Th-that’s why I want to help. Wuh-with the closet.” Stan’s brows raise at Bill’s seemingly unconnected outburst, but he waits for clarification. “I w-want us to share e-everything together.” The words are painfully earnest, and Stan waits for the comeback he’s sure to have. About how they CAN’T share everything, how unreasonable and ridiculous it would be to even TRY. About how trying to share EVERYTHING was only making this one simple task so much harder than it could ever need to be.

“That’s sweet, Bill.” Stan finds himself saying instead, pecking Bill’s lips once more. “Now stop distracting me, or we’ll be playing with the laundry until midnight.” They go back to organizing the shirts, but there’s a different sort of energy between them now. Bill’s eyes are determined and sure, as if Bill _knows_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s really going to nail the organization from here on out. Bill’s certainty has always been contagious to Stan - one inspiring speech from Bill has never failed to make him believe that they were capable of anything. For the first time since Stan had moved in, he allows himself to believe that Bill can get this right. 

Just _believing_ takes away some of Stan’s stress, and Stan wonders if that was Bill’s goal all along, if he’d known somehow that letting Stan yell and vent and then still fighting his way in anyway would relieve some of the pressure. Or maybe he’d just known that Stan needed extra reassurance that Bill could handle even the bad moments without running scared. He hopes that’s true - it’s difficult for Stan to have faith in intangible things, and Bill’s dreams and promises about their future sound almost as ethereal as a moonbeam sometimes. But he _wants_ so badly he can taste it. A tiny but comfortable home, lived in but clean. One desk for two, himself having to reach past a weathered typewriter to grab his own calculator, refusing to keep it anywhere else just so he can sneak kisses from the man seated at that typewriter. One bed for two, warm green flannel sheets that smell like familiar spices and that familiar man and _home_ , the best home he’s known all of his life.

He doesn’t know how to believe it’ll happen, to have faith in something that feels like such a pipe dream. But knowing that Bill can handle his bad times helps him hope.


	19. Eighteen

About two months after Stan moves in, Bill figures out the most difficult thing about living with him. 

The OCD had taken some getting used to, sure. But after they’d gotten a system of organization down (and Stan had stopped suppressing the urge to change things), Bill finds that he actually _enjoys_ the structure. He hasn’t lost a notebook or misplaced his favorite shirt in weeks, and not having any of his dirty clothes on the floor has drastically decreased the number of times he’s wiped out in his own room while rushing to get ready. He’s even gotten used to sharing his bathroom time with another person in the mornings, though the few minutes he’d had to shave off of his shower feeds into his REAL problem in an incredibly unpleasant way. 

The problem is that Stan is always there. He’s always beautiful and soft and _warm_ and in Bill’s bed. And, no matter how badly Bill wants him to be, Stan isn’t ready for more. He was worried at first that Stan just wasn’t physically attracted to him - more than platonic kisses and touches were always _accepted_ , but never initiated and not always returned. Even when Stanley’s hands were on his skin, pulling his hair, holding him close and encouraging Bill to keep kissing him, Stan wasn’t hard. Bill wasn’t interested in rushing things, but the idea that Stan wasn’t hot for him at ALL had scared Bill. There’s a huge difference between waiting to have sex and _never_ having it, and Bill wasn’t sure he could handle a never.

The day he’d asked Stan to stay with him had settled those nerves. Stan had kissed HIM, had sucked at his skin, had _wanted_ him. They hadn’t gone much further than the kiss that day, but just knowing that Stan had been hard for him too had been enough to ease his mind. Stan’s touches haven’t been as hesitant since then, and their shirts regularly wind up at least half-off, Stan’s polos tossed to the floor, Bill’s flannels unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders though Bill isn’t willing to stop touching Stan’s body long enough to get the shirt all of the way off his arms. He’s realizing that he’s got more than a little bit of a weakness for Stan in his dress shirts, unbuttoned the way Bill’s usually are, the thin, perfectly ironed material wrinkling as it slips down off of Stan’s delicate shoulders and exposes his lean chest and stomach to Bill’s mouth. But, inevitably, when his mouth wanders too low or his hands squeeze too hard, Stan is telling him to stop. 

He always does stop, of course. He knows that his future is with Stan, they’re _meant_ to be together, and he would never do anything to jeopardize that. But the sexual tension is starting to build up in him. He can’t just excuse himself after their time together to take care of himself without making things awkward, and he doesn’t always have time to wash his hair and do _that_ in the shower before Stan is pounding on the bathroom door and insisting that he needs to hurry up so they aren’t late to school. The unsatisfied need in him makes him frustrated and clumsy, and more often than ever Bill finds himself blushing and stammering out apologies as he picks up the contents of his spilled pencil case or backpack from the crowded hallway. Richie’s pointed comments that “You just need to get your dick wet, Big Bill!” haven’t helped Stan’s comfort level any, and no amount of beeping seems to shut the annoying boy up about it. 

Part of Bill wonders if maybe it won’t actually happen until college. If maybe this town and all of its bad memories are holding something back in Stan, making him unable to really let go. Bill knows that he himself isn’t going to get everything he dreams of out of their first time - if it were up to him, he’d take Stan somewhere romantic, really take his time, kiss over every inch of his body and make him feel utterly _worshipped_ before they made love. But he knows the attention would make Stan uncomfortable, and that picking out a special night and place would make the sex a Big Deal, and neither of them do so well with one another when putting undue pressure on a relationship milestone to be perfect. More than likely, they won’t have full-on sex until they’re in their dorm room, away from the Clown and the Rabbi and every classmate who’d ever called Stan a faggot for being clean and slender.

Bill doesn’t need penetration, though. He needs to _come_ , and he needs to do it with the taste of Stan’s tongue on his and the feel of Stan coming apart against him. Normally, Bill makes it a point to talk to Stan about what he needs - Stan always listens, and has been more than accommodating to him in the past. This situation is different, though. Stan knows that Bill wants him. Bill has made that utterly clear more than once. And if Bill brings it up, it’ll feel like he’s pressuring Stan to sleep with him knowing that Stan isn’t ready. This is something they can’t talk about any more than they already have, something that Bill just has to let Stan work toward at his own pace and come to Bill with when he’s ready. It isn’t easy, but nothing between the two of them has been so far. 

Stan has always been worth the effort.

*

Stan has been having a Good Day today. Bill knows, because he’s been watching - in part because he loves the way it feels to just watch his beautiful boyfriend laugh and frown and roll his eyes at people, but also because he likes to know what he should expect when they get home. Stan’s last Good Day had left deep red scratches from just below his navel to just above the waistband of his underwear, and if a second Good Day had followed, Bill isn’t sure _what_ would’ve happened. Sadly, he hadn’t gotten to find out, but today… today is better than even that last Good Day. Stan had aced a creative writing paper Bill had helped him with - it’s Stan’s worst and least favorite subject, and getting a perfect grade on anything requiring an abstraction like “creativity” is rare for Stan. Richie and his annoying jokes have ditched school for the day, so he isn’t there to bother Stan out of his happiness. Everything is lining up _perfectly_. 

Mike invites the two of them to hang out at the barrens after school, but the look Stan gives Bill over Mike’s shoulder has him both blushing and stammering out an excuse about homework. The look is subtle enough that even though Ben is standing right next to Bill, he doesn’t seem to notice it at all. But Bill knows that look, VERY well, and seeing it outside of their bedroom like this has Bill a little bit shaken up. He’s pretty sure if he makes it home without having an embarrassing and noticeable problem in his jeans, he’ll be very lucky. 

Stan isn’t making that goal easy on him, though. Because during their walk home, Bill can almost swear that Stan is _flirting_ with him. Their regular hand-holding has been foregone for Stan casually resting his hand on Bill’s bicep, squeezing the way Bill LOVES as they walk, nails pressing in a little bit through the fabric of his baseball tee. And Stan hasn’t stopped looking at him the same way he had in school, subtle hunger clear for only Bill to see. The want in his expression brings out the gold in his eyes, which perfectly matches the natural golden strands in his neatly styled chocolate brown hair, all of it glowing and shimmering like rutilated quartz in the afternoon sun. He wishes he could draw Stan exactly like this, but he doesn’t think a hundred years of practice would be enough to accurately capture how stunning Stanley truly is. He wants to tell Stan that, but Stan isn’t comfortable with those kinds of compliments, and the last thing Bill wants to do is ruin this moment by making Stan uncomfortable. 

Even if Stan is making HIM uncomfortable, looking at him like a goddamn dream and still making innocent small talk. Bill would almost believe that it IS innocent, but the tiny upturn at the corner of Stan’s lips and the extra fullness in his cheekbones as he tries to hide his smile give it away. Bill knows he should probably be annoyed by the teasing, but really, it only makes him happy. Stan doing this means that Stan is taking for granted that Bill WANTS him. Stan isn’t questioning it, doesn’t need to look for confirmation at all. He knows he’s got Bill’s full attention, knows that with just a look he can have Bill eating out of the palm of his hand. The casual confidence of this flirt may be lost on Stan, but Bill has made it his mission to notice everything, and he damn sure notices this. 

It’s their typical routine to put dinner in the oven and settle down with their homework at the dining room table right away, but this time as soon as they’re inside the house and their shoes are removed, Stan heads for the stairs. Bill follows almost dumbly, watching Stan’s pressed chinos cling just perfectly to the petite curve of his ass each time he steps up to the next stair. Bill’s groin tugs forward against the zipper of his jeans, the lack of release that morning catching up with him fast, leaving him hard over almost nothing before Stan has even touched him.

The touch comes moments later, as soon as Bill’s bedroom door is safely closed and locked and both of their backpacks are abandoned on the floor. Stan presses Bill back against the door almost immediately, fingers fisted in the front of Bill’s baseball tee, gently biting and sucking at Bill’s bottom lip. Bill’s hands immediately scramble for purchase on Stan’s slender hips, as low as he feels he can safely go without being redirected, fingertips pressing into the top curve of Stan’s ass, his grip pulling Stan in closer. Stan’s tongue swipes over Bill’s lips, and Bill gives it a returning lick between their mouths, fighting Stan for control of the kiss. After a few long moments Stan’s tongue retreats, and Bill’s follows it back into Stan’s mouth, groaning softly at the feel and taste of him. Stan’s answering sound is soft and almost musical in nature, and Bill shivers, clutches Stan’s hips tighter, pushes his own forward into them.

Stan breaks the kiss way sooner than Bill would’ve liked him to, but before he can pull Stan back in, the boy is tugging Bill’s tee up, fingers skimming up Bill’s lean stomach as he goes. “Arms up, Bill.” His voice is demanding and unromantic, but Bill can’t find it in him to complain when the order ends with less clothing between his skin and Stan’s. He gives Stan’s waist one final squeeze before raising his arms above his head and letting Stanley tug off his shirt. Stan’s lips descend upon Bill’s collarbones and lean pecs right away, leaving a trail of gentle sucks and messy bites that are sure to leave a smattering of uneven bruises on his skin - bruises that Stan always complains about the asymmetry of when they’re lying in bed at night, but can’t seem to stop himself from leaving all over Bill’s skin in the heat of the moment. Bill’s own hands shake as they raise to tug at the buttons of Stan’s dress shirt, careful not to accidentally rip one of the buttons off in his haste to get the shirt open. It had happened once before, and it had completely torn Stan out of the mood. Bill can’t have that happening this time. He needs this far too badly to mess it up over a button.

When Stan’s shirt is safely unbuttoned Bill tugs at Stan’s hair, drags him up into another kiss, slow and emotional though the undercurrent of desire is still there between the both of them. Stan is shorter than Bill is, and his arms wrap tightly around Bill’s neck for balance as he lifts onto his tiptoes to deepen the kiss, bare torsos and swollen groins pressing together in a way that makes both of them cling harder to one another, hands stroking at bare skin. Bill experimentally grinds his hips forward, delighting in the breathy groan Stan lets out against his mouth. Stan’s hips rock forward into his just slightly, and Bill realizes in that moment that they need to get to the bed before his knees go weak and just give out beneath him. 

It isn’t easy as easy as it looks in the movies to walk someone back toward a bed while continuing to kiss them and grind shamelessly against them. Bill’s knees knock against Stan’s more than once, and the movement of Bill’s tongue against Stan’s gets messy from the extra concentration he has to pay to walking. He doesn’t stop them at the edge of the bed fast enough, and before he realizes what’s happening Stan falls backward onto their mattress, Bill tripping after him in his haste to catch him, body landing on top of Stan’s in a graceless heap, Stan letting out a little “oof” sound as Bill’s elbow catches him right in the kidney.

“F-fuck, I’m s-so s-so-sorry!” Bill stutters out through Stan’s laughter, burying his reddened face in the side of Stan’s neck. He assumes that this is the end of today’s make-out session, and while he was very much hoping to get at least a little more of that delicious friction before being asked to stop, he definitely understands why this would end it. He’s surprised by the gentle kiss just above his ear and the fingers tugging at his hair. He’s even more surprised at the way Stan’s graceful legs spread open to make room for him between them, knees bowing delicately around Bill’s hips. He tries to school the hope out of his expression when he looks up at Stan, but he can tell by Stan’s little knowing smile that he hadn’t succeeded. 

“Apologize later. Kiss me, Bill.” In spite of Stan’s words, he doesn’t wait for Bill to take the initiative. His fingers tug Bill gently up by the hair into another deep, hungry kiss, Stan’s tongue taking dominance this time, Bill sucking hard at it the way he knew Stan liked. He marvels for a moment that, even beneath him and seemingly in the submissive position, Stan is still very much the one in control of him right now. As much as he enjoys having the power himself, there’s something almost freeing in letting Stan drive for a while, and he sinks into that feeling, letting his mind relax. His hips start to push forward into Stan’s again, feeling Stan’s legs tense and flex around his waist each time Stan rocks back up into him. Stan’s fingers stroke gently down Bill’s spine, the tips of his nails dragging teasingly slowly over Bill’s skin, and Bill’s body shivers against Stan’s, hips pushing down harder. Bill can feel his heartbeat pulsing in the vein beneath his dick, insistent and needy and…

“Wait.” Stan gasps out, and Bill sighs quietly. He’d seen that coming, but the knowing doesn’t make it feel any better to peel his body away from Stan’s. He tries to distract his mind from Stan, still laying prone on his bed, curls artfully messy, lips puffy and swollen, shirt open, chinos tented at the crotch, looking so thoroughly _debauched_... “Can you take off your jeans?” Bill chokes. 

“Yuh...You… What?” Part of Bill’s mind is SCREAMING for him to _shut up, he wants you to take off your pants, just take off your **fucking** pants_ , but the rest of him is too stunned to comply. “You… a-are you sure?” Stan nods eagerly, then turns pink.

“I mean… yes? I want… I mean, if you want to keep doing that, so do I. And if we keep doing it like that, the dye from your jeans is going to stain the crotch of my shorts and it’ll completely ruin them.” Bill can’t help but laugh. Only Stan could possibly bring an obsessive compulsive desire for cleanliness into his bed and still turn him on more than anyone else ever has. He bites back the fond ‘I love you’ that almost bubbles up from his throat - Stan isn’t ready to hear it, and Bill refuses to say something so important for the first time during sex. He leans down for another kiss instead, affectionate and slow, before standing up and unbuttoning his jeans. 

In spite of the number of times they’d gone swimming in just their underwear, Bill has never _undressed_ for Stan before, and they’ve never seen one another hard in just underwear before. There’s a nervous flutter in Bill’s stomach, a quick moment when he questions if Stan will like what he sees - Bill is usually pretty secure in the way he looks, but he’s got no previous experience to bolster his confidence, and he’s always found Stan’s level of physical attraction to him somewhat questionable. When he meets Stan’s eyes and sees the lust-blown pupils, his self-assuredness returns.

“Will you t-take yours off too? The zi-zipper will hurt with-without my jeans.” Bill desperately wanting to see Stan without them definitely factors into the request too, but saying so would only make Stan blush more than the question itself already had. Stan just nods, sitting up, shrugging out of his shirt the rest of the way. Stan’s hands are a little bit shaky as he lowers them to his fly, undoing it before pushing the shorts down, setting both the shorts and his shirt carefully beside the bed, even his pile of discarded clothes on the floor somewhat tidy. Bill’s eyes are immediately drawn to the the smattering of downy blonde hair across Stan’s thighs, his fingers itching to stroke through the soft peach fuzz and feel the lithe muscles in those thighs contract beneath his hands.

“Would you stop staring?” Stan sounds almost grumpy, but one look at his face shows Bill that he’s just uncomfortable being exposed like this. Bill gives him a soft, sweet smile.

“S-sorry. I’m an a-artist, I like to stare at buh-beautiful things.” Stan squirms and turns pink. Bill returns to the bed, back to his place between Stan’s spread legs, but he doesn’t press their groins together again. Not yet. He tilts his head down instead, kissing Stan again, slow and sweet. As much as Bill wants the friction, as much as he’s dripping and _aching_ for it, Stan isn’t comfortable. And Bill won’t continue this until he’s certain that Stan is back in the moment with him, until he’s lost in desire again. An insecure part of his mind tries to tell him that if it were _Richie_ , maybe Stan would still be in that needy place, but Bill knows that isn’t true, and he forces the thought away. His tongue traces over Stan’s lips, and Stan lets him in, their tongues twisting slowly together, the desperation from earlier settling into an easy, affectionate longing. 

One of Bill’s hands moves to Stan’s ribcage, tracing over his skin, drawing tight circles around each of his nipples with his fingernails, making the boy beneath him shiver. Stan’s own hands squeeze hard at Bill’s shoulders, thumbs pressing hard into Bill’s slim biceps. Bill knows his muscles are small, but Stan’s attentiveness to them always makes him feel stronger, and Stan appreciating that the way he does never fails to turn Bill on. Stan’s fingers stroke down Bill’s back, and they almost shake as he grasps Bill’s hips tightly, nails digging into the sides of Bill’s briefs. Slowly, nervously, Stan tugs Bill’s hips down, reconnecting their bodies. Both boys gasp at the feel of the contact between their groins, never having felt it with just their thin underwear between them before, and Bill grinds down experimentally, making Stan’s head roll back, a loud groan falling from his lips. The urgency from earlier quickly builds between them again, hips rocking together, Stan’s fingers digging so hard into Bill’s ass that he’s almost sure they’ll leave tiny bruises. Bill’s lips connect to Stan’s arched throat, and he licks roughly over Stan’s adams apple, barely having enough forethought to tilt his head down to a patch of skin that Stan can hide before he begins to suck and nibble, making Stan squirm and cry out beneath him. 

“Can I…?” Bill is only half-aware that Stan is even talking, mind fuzzy with pleasure, but he’s present enough to notice one of Stanley’s hands sliding around to the front of his hip, fingertips grazing the top of Bill’s bare thigh. With only one quick moment of hesitation to warn Bill, Stan lowers his own hips to the bed, slides his hand into the inch of space between their groins, and grasps Bill’s dick through his underwear. Bill can only bury his face in Stan’s shoulder and try to muffle the drawn-out groan against his skin as Stan’s fingers start to hesitantly stroke him through the fabric. Bill’s touched himself before, plenty of times, with more skill and way less teasing than this. But this is _Stan_ touching him, and that makes everything different. Stan had chosen to do this, Stan had WANTED to touch, and he’d taken the initiative to do it. His touch is unsure, and Bill’s first instinct is to tell Stan to just do what he himself likes, but something in him tells him it would be the wrong move. He gently shifts their positions instead, lying on his side facing Stan, tugging Stan to face him the same way. Stan’s brows furrow in confusion, and Bill leans in to kiss Stan softly, his voice husky with want.

“Fuh-follow my l-lead, Stan.” He kisses Stan once more, then pulls back just slightly, wanting to see Stan’s face as he does this. His own hand strokes its way down the flat of Stan’s stomach down over his navel to his underwear. Bill can see Stan’s eyes darken in anticipation, his lips parting slightly as his breath quickens, and he can feel his mind taking snapshots of Stan, private photographs that are just for him to remember. He wants to do this without the underwear, but he can tell that’s too far for Stan right now, so he doesn’t press his luck. When his fingers close around Stan’s cloth-covered bulge Stan’s eyes close, a tiny, almost pained cry keening up from his throat. Bill is still for a moment, waits for Stan to catch his breath, waits for him to be ready again. When he sees those eyes flutter open for him again, he slowly starts to stroke Stan through the cotton. “D-do it like this on m-me.”

Stan’s fingers squeeze Bill’s shaft a bit tighter, and he starts to slowly move his hand, up and down, slow. His touch is more exploratory than Bill’s is - he loses the rhythm a few times to pull the fabric tight around the head and feel the shape and texture of it through Bill’s briefs, a habit which has Bill’s dick twitching with pleasure even as his precum soaks through his underwear. After a few moments, Stan’s rhythm evens out - a little bit too even, and Bill can almost feel him counting: one, up, two, down. Bill presses a hard kiss to Stan’s lips, gives his cock a little squeeze, eyes almost pleading when he speaks.

“N-no counting, Stan. Juh-just feel it. Stay with me.” Bill kisses Stan again, hand moving faster on him, tracing along the prominent vein through the fabric. Stan matches his motion easily, though he’s squeezing Bill harder than Bill is squeezing him, not being as careful. Bill doesn’t want him to be gentle - his long fingers are _incredible_ around Bill, and the gentle drag of his nails on the fabric around him makes it thrum almost imperceptibly against his skin, sending little shockwaves of pleasure through him.

“I’m trying, Bill. It’s just so MUCH.” Stan shivers, his body pressing close to Bill’s. Bill kisses Stan’s chin softly, free arm pillowing under his own head so he can reach his hand up and play with Stan’s hair, gently soothing him. He knows that emotion and sensation and _feeling_ overwhelm Stan sometimes, and that can make Stan go quiet, can trigger him back into his routines. Bill doesn’t want that to happen now. It wouldn’t feel great for him, but it’d be worse for Stan. He doesn’t think Stan’s ego would ever recover enough to try this again, and he NEEDS this to be a good experience for his boyfriend.

“I kn-know it is, Stan. I know. But I’m h-here and I have you. I’ve got you, okay? Tr-trust me.” Stan’s eyes lock on Bill’s, wide and surprised, and for a moment Bill isn’t sure if what he’d said is right - he can see the extra wetness in Stan’s eyes, can see tears there, threatening to fall. Then Stan is kissing Bill, needy and desperate, raw emotion clear in his eyes. Bill’s fingers fist tightly in Stan’s hair, and their hands move faster on one another now, rubbing and squeezing, hips thrusting forward into fists when they just need more. Stan is practically shaking against Bill, but he obviously doesn’t want to stop, sucking hard on Bill’s tongue, hips pushing needily forward into Bill’s groin. Bill throws one of his legs gently over Stan’s hip, just to give the boy more physical contact, grounding Stan to this bed and this moment and _him_ , knowing that sometimes Stan needed that. 

Bill can feel the familiar buzz building in the base of his balls, knows he’s almost _there_ , trying desperately to fight it, to give Stan more time. He doesn’t need to worry about that - Stan breaks the kiss and buries his face into Bill’s throat, hoarsely whispering out Bill’s name, the sound intense and passionate as a scream against his skin. Stan comes only moments later, and Bill can feel it through the fabric of his underwear. The hazy realization of _’I did that, I made him come’_ layers with Stan’s tiny, broken sounds, and Bill comes apart to the harmony, eyes closing, lips pressing to Stan’s hair. 

For a few moments, they just breathe together, hearts racing, bodies tangled and pressed close, hands resting on softening members. Bill’s fingers are still twisted in Stan’s hair, and he gently tugs Stan’s head up, trading a few slow, lazy kisses with him as they bask in the afterglow. Bill can tell the exact second that realization comes back into Stan’s eyes, and the hint of regret in his expression terrifies Bill. 

“Oh shit, this is way less pleasant after after it happens than it was during. Can we do the cuddle thing after I clean up?” Stan squirms a little, and the relief Bill feels when he realizes that Stan is just upset about his sticky underwear brings a laugh up from his throat. Bill wraps Stan in a gentle hug, kisses his forehead.

“Y-yeah, of course!” Stan gets out of bed, throws his robe over his near-nudity, and grabs some clean clothes. Bill can’t stop looking at him. “The wa-washcloths are-” Stan comes back to the bed, cuts him off with a quick kiss. 

“I know where the washcloths are, Bill. I’ll bring you back one.” Bill’s smile as Stan walks out of the room is radiant, because _yeah_. Stan DOES know where the washcloths are. Because Stan LIVES here, and they just had SEX, and everything is RIGHT in his life.

Bill stands, tugging out a pair of sweats and new underwear for himself though he doesn’t change yet, not caring to until Stan came back with his washcloth. Instead, he walks around the room, cleaning up the mess they’d left - their shirts and pants go into the laundry basket, and their backpacks are stacked neatly next to Bill’s desk the way Stan likes them to be.

His mind can’t help but wander back to Stan’s sexuality. He’d known that Stan was a virgin, but after what they'd done he doesn’t even think Stan has touched himself before. And beyond that, when Stan had felt the come cooling in his underwear, he’d seemed almost… surprised. Like he’d never even had a wet dream. And while Bill had considered in the past that Stan had never been interested in DATING anyone else, it had never quite crossed his mind that maybe Stan just didn’t feel sexual attraction that way. That it was an entirely new frontier for Stan. Bill remembers how he’d felt when he first discovered sexuality, and how overwhelmed Stan had become makes so much more sense.

Bill waits for this to make him feel differently about Stan. Waits to feel upset that Stan had started dating him without even being sexually attracted to him, to be uncomfortable with the pressure of shaping all of Stan’s ideas about what sex should be. That moment doesn’t come. Stan had started dating him because he’d _liked_ him, honestly and purely. He’d had no physical attraction to Bill, and yet he’d still seen past the stutter and the insecurity and the neediness to want to be with him. When Bill had realized his stutter wasn’t going away, he’d been relieved that he’d grown up attractive. He’d thought the only way someone could ever fall in love with someone who talked like him was for them to be dazzled enough by his good looks to forget his flaw. Stan hadn’t even been able to NOTICE his looks when they’d first been together, and he’d still given Bill his heart. It means more to Bill than he’d even realized it would. 

And, if he’s being honest, he WANTS the pressure of shaping Stan’s views on sex. He’s the only one he’d ever trust to do it. He’s not exactly experienced himself - he’s wanted Stan for years, and he’s not the kind of person who would sleep with someone knowing that being with them wasn’t his heart’s true intention - but no one will ever take better care of Stan than he will. No one will ever do more to preserve Stan’s happiness. And having the chance to show Stan that sex is more than just bodies and orgasms and fluids, that there’s a deeper connection to be made? It’s a gift, and not one that Bill plans to waste.

The door creaks open when Stan returns, and the boy actually blushes when he sees that Bill is still only in his underwear. He holds a wet cloth out to Bill, giving him an almost shy smile.

“Here. This is for you.” Stan immediately spins away from him, hanging the robe on the door and staring at it, shoulders scrunched. Bill is almost worried for a minute, then he realizes what Stan is doing and bursts out laughing.

“Se-seriously, Stan? We ju-just had sex a-and you don’t w-want to see me naked?” Bill’s voice is teasing, and Stan puts his face in his hands, groaning. He’s obviously not actually upset though, so Bill just strips out of his dirty underclothes and wipes himself clean.

“I want to, Bill. You don’t have to question that. I just want it to happen… When it’s supposed to happen. And I don’t think that moment is us just standing awkwardly across the room from one another as you cleanse yourself of bodily fluids.” Bill just laughs, tossing the damp cloth into the hamper and tugging on a fresh pair of underwear and some clean sweats.

“Wow. M-my boyfriend, ta-talking about perfect moments. I’m so p-proud.” Stan chuckles, and Bill walks up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stan’s waist, kissing his shoulder. He’s immediately gratified at the way Stan sinks back into his embrace. “Y-you said something ab-about post-shower c-cuddling?” 

“I did. And you’re about one more smartass comment away from talking me out of it.” There’s no bite to Stan’s words though, and he easily allows Bill to tug him over to the bed, both of them laying down and cuddling close, Bill pressing a soft kiss to the top of Stan’s head. Stan’s contented smile against his collarbone means everything to Bill, and in a moment of indulgence he wonders if Stan will still be this content 20 years from now, with all of their first times in the distant past. He promises himself in this moment that he’ll always find a way to excite Stan. “We still have to do our homework.” Stan’s voice is slow and sleepy, and it’s very clear that he won’t be doing any homework right now. Bill drags his lips gently over Stan’s forehead.

“We-we’ll wake up in a f-few hours and do it then.” Bill sounds confident and sure, but he’s not certain if it even would’ve mattered, Stan’s only response being a sleepy mewling sound and a nuzzle to Bill’s neck. Bill himself has no intention of sleeping through this moment - it’s a milestone for him personally, and for him and Stan, and he wants to savor it. He gently traces his fingers over Stan’s shoulderblades, his elbows, his jawline. He inhales deeply, smells Stan’s clean soap and shampoo blended with the last remnants of their combined orgasms. He knows he’s being sappy, and possibly overly romantic, but as Stan sleeps on, Bill basks in the afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent probably as many hours beta reading this as it took to write, so hope it didn't suck. And don't worry, this brief interlude doesn't mean this will suddenly become all this all the time. xx


	20. Nineteen

Stan thinks he’s becoming obsessed with The Forgetting.

He’s not trying to - he’s always fought against becoming fixated on things as best he can, especially when those things bring down his mood. But he knows that every day closer to graduation they get is a day closer to losing the stability his friends had grown together. They all swear that it won’t happen. They make big promises about writing letters, about springing for long distance phone calls every once in a while, maybe even taking flights out to Mike’s farm once or twice a year to catch up on each others’ lives. They all WANT to mean it, but Stan can tell that none of them really do. The distance will make them Forget, and the less they remember about one another the less important it’ll seem to even send the letters. They all know it’ll be less than a year before even the letters stop, but no one wants to be the first to say so.

They’re not pulling away from one another now. If anything, they’re savoring their last few months together. They’re all laughing at Richie’s jokes way more than they used to though they aren’t getting any funnier. They’d all listened to Ben talk about the histories of the towns they were each moving to with rapt attention, though none of them besides Mike really cared much for history so long as these towns didn’t also have disappearance rates six times the national average. Eddie had given up a few of his sunny afternoons for the flashing lights of the arcade with barely a complaint to be heard. Richie had even gone bird watching with Stan one morning, had tried to be so silent and respectful that it had nearly driven Stan crazy before Richie broke into his Crocodile Dundee impression. Without anyone else around to witness it Stan had done a matching accent of his own, and they’d hunted birds for almost an hour, laughing and sniffling and holding back tears, knowing that they’d never do anything like this again. Every moment they have together feels like a goodbye now, bittersweet and stretched out over the few final months they’ll spend in this town.

Stan can’t say it doesn’t hurt - it’s heartbreaking, and he finds himself wishing yet again that they’d all just agreed to go to Portland, even if it DID mean Bill being reminded of how beautiful Beverly is. But a deep, quiet part of him knows why they hadn’t. If they stay together as a team of seven, they’ll always make each other remember. And whether they’re willing to admit it or not, none of them _want_ to remember. Stan would like to say it isn’t true, that they’re nothing like their parents. He’d like to pore over his notebook about It every day, to study every photo he has of the Losers together and memorize every tiny detail to hold in his heart for the rest of his life. But there’s another part of him - part of all of them, he thinks - that is _hoping_ to Forget. Not each other, NEVER each other, but definitely the Clown and Neibolt and the fucking sewer. Every memory they’ve made as a full group of seven has been so tainted by the Clown that Stan isn’t sure what they _will_ remember.

Which, he supposes, is why he’s studying the Forgetting with every avenue he has, hoping for some kind of answers. Will he only really Forget Mike and Ben, the homeschooled boy and the new kid, the two who hadn’t been part of his life before Pennywise came? Will he remember Beverly as just the girl with the bad reputation from school that Bill kissed one time in third grade? He, Richie, Bill, and Eddie had all been friends since long before the Clown had come for them, and he wonders if he’d remember that. If his memory would supply him vague explanations to pacify him about why the four of them had drifted apart from such a long friendship. He’s got no romantic ideals about them still staying in touch - Eddie will stop writing Richie the first time Richie gets excited about another boy in LA, will refuse to take the desperate phone calls that Richie can’t afford to make once the letters stop. Richie will pull away from Bill and Stan to hide his emotions the way he always does, and the more time passes the more likely it is that he just won’t ever write back. The lack of contact will make them lose touch the way grade school friends always do in college, but it’ll go beyond that, too. They’ll Forget. Until one day, they all get that fateful phone call.

He imagines Mike sitting there on the farm in Derry, watching month by month as the postcards and letters fade into a slow trickle and then ebb away into nothing, forced to always remember what the rest of them selfishly allowed themselves to Forget. He can see the envy on Mike’s face as he watches the rest of them prepare for college, the silent resentment stewing inside of him that he’d never be selfish enough to actually express. Stan can’t blame him a bit - he wouldn’t be tough enough to be the only one who had to stay in Derry, to _remember_ , and in moments like these he realizes that Mike may truly be the strongest of all of them. He gives permission in his own mind for Mike to hate him just a little.

If Stan is honest though, his main worry isn’t leaving Mike behind, isn’t losing his closest friends and possibly never seeing them again. What will happen with Mike and the others is easy to figure out for him, and even a negative certainty like that provides some sort of comfort to Stan. His future with Bill is painfully uncertain to him. Some of that can be chalked up to normal college insecurities - there will be hundreds of new, interesting people at University, and he’s spent more time than he’d like to admit worrying that Bill will outgrow his childhood feelings for his childhood friend in the face of the adult offers he’s sure to receive. Bill is gorgeous, and naturally charismatic even through the stutter, the kind of guy who calls attention to himself effortlessly without ever needing to demand it. The man he’s growing into takes Stan’s breath away, and he’s sure to do the same to dozens of beautiful co-eds. 

The Bill he’s dating now wouldn’t even notice - he’s the most loyal person Stan has ever known, and Stan is more confident in Bill’s feelings for him now than he ever has been. Their Best Friends Turned Lovers story is romantic enough for Bill, yet still gives Stan the stability and security he needs to really let himself be vulnerable. It’s perfectly ideal for both of their needs, for now. But soon enough, once they’re away from the others, away from _Derry_ , the memories will start to disappear. The sewers and the Clown and the Flute Player, all faded into a fever dream. Bill’s guilt over Georgie will follow, and Stan thinks he’ll even stop seeing the scars on his own face. All of the things he and Bill had commiserated over together, all of the reasons they’d become as close as they were, would vanish. Would Bill’s feelings vanish with them? Has shadow of Pennywise been so much of an influence on their relationship that they’ll forget being together in the first place?

Stan wants to let Bill hold him and reassure him and tell him it’ll all work out for the best. He knows that Bill won’t really consider what he’s saying, though. Bill won’t think about whether or not he’d want to court Stanley if they’d just met, if they hadn’t had the benefit of a decade of history behind them. Bill won’t confront the very real possibility that they’ll forget their first kiss, their first time together. That they could wake up one morning oddly distant from one another with the stability between them gone, that Bill might have to re-face all of the mental issues he and Stan had already conquered together because of it. That he might have to fight his way past Stan’s wall again to get back into his heart. He wonders if they’ll have enough feelings between them to sustain a real relationship when they forget the years of intimacy they’d built. If beautiful, beloved novelist Bill Denbrough will still be willing to find space in his heart for plain, practical Stanley Uris, CPA.

Stan’s first instinct is to discuss this with Richie. They’ve always enjoyed a particular sort of snark between them, but Richie has consistently been there for him whenever he really needed someone, and he’s surprisingly good at keeping private things private when he wants to. Stan can always count on Richie to be realistic for him, to honestly consider both the positive and negative of the situation even as he’s doing a stupid voice to lighten the mood. Going to Richie just seems obvious to him in this moment.

He fights the instinct and brings it up to Bill instead.

“Bill? What happens if we Forget all of this?” Bill sets his sketchbook down on the bed beside them and sighs. Bill hates to talk about what happened **that** summer, and Stan thinks he may want to Forget more than any of the others, more than Bill himself even realizes. But he’s the one who’d insisted that Stan come to him with his worries. He’d practically _begged_ Stan to consider sharing with him before going to Richie, and as foreign as it still feels for Stan to do so, he’s trying. 

“We pruh-probably will. We f-figured that out a long time ago. It’s why w-we cut our hands.” Bill sounds rightly confused, and Stan just shakes his head. It would be so much less awkward trying to explain this to someone else, someone he didn’t have to worry would take his words as some sort of insult - or worse, a jealous, clingy spectacle.

“I’m not talking about the sewers. I’m talking about us. Our relationship.” Stan can’t quite meet Bill’s gaze as he talks - this is already stupidly uncomfortable _without_ prolonged eye contact, and letting himself get lost in Bill’s eyes would only be a distraction at this point. “We were friends before what happened, but you were always closer with Eddie, and I was with Richie. If we Forget, we might not even remember bonding more. We might remember the kind of friendship we had before Pennywise and that’s it.” Bill is silent. It seems like he’s actually considering this, and Stan feels bad for a moment that he hadn’t given Bill enough credit even though though part of him does miss the immediate, free comfort he’d expected from Bill. 

“S-so I’ll have to step my guh-game up to keep you.” Bill’s words are serious and final. Stan almost laughs.

“What does that even mean, Bill?” He unconsciously presses close to Bill’s side, and Bill immediately wraps an arm around him, kisses the side of his head.

“I’m going to rem-remember having the most reliable p-person I’ve ever met always there for me when I nuh-needed him. Someone who nuh-never cared when I stuttered and al-always let me practice my stuh-stories on him before I told everyone el-else so I wouldn’t emb-barrass myself. So-someone I would have fuh-followed to college anyway because I’ve always j-just done BETTER with your m-moral support. What are you su-supposed to remember about me from b-back then? I didn’t pick y-you up from boy scuh-scouts or help you st-study your Torah. You’ll pr-probably wonder why it’s me and not R-” Stan cuts Bill off with a kiss, sighing.

“I won’t be wondering that, Bill. You won’t be wondering why it’s me and not Beverly, will you?“ The question comes out before Stan even realizes, and his stomach churns, insecurity flooding his veins. Bill looks utterly confused at the question, and Stan quickly backpedals. “Of course not. You won’t even remember getting to know her that summer.” Bill actually looks wounded at that, and Stan wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“It’s n-not because I won’t remember. Muh-maybe I just re-realized that my ad-adult future had to be b-built on something stronger than a th-third grade crush.” The _’And maybe you’ve just forgotten how beautiful she is’_ catches in Stan’s throat, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He unconsciously smooths the wrinkles from Bill’s shirt. “A-are you sure you wouldn’t have l-liked Ruh-Richie? Ev-even without the C-clown?” Stan almost scoffs, but Bill is looking at him earnestly, like he honestly expects an answer. And he supposes that, if Bill didn’t brush off the conversation when Stan had needed him to have it, Stan won’t either. He honestly considers the question.

“I don’t know how to answer that.” It’s not a good enough answer and Stan knows that. “There are too many details to think about. If there had been no Clown, Bev wouldn’t have left and you would have been with her.” Bill obviously means to cut him off, and Stan silences him with a kiss. “It’s okay that you liked her, Bill. I’m not saying that it isn’t. But if she had started dating you, she would have become the person you went to the movies with, the one you wanted to tell your stories to first. We’d have started spending less time together. And if Eddie had never been challenged to stand up to his mother, he probably wouldn’t have been spending as much time with Richie as he did. Rich and I would have probably been together a lot more, and I can’t tell you how that extra time would have made me feel. Especially if things were more-or-less normal in our lives.” He laughs softly. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I had feelings or not. If I hadn’t had to face up to Pennywise, I think I’d still end up married to a nice Jewish woman who secretly resented me but knew that marrying a Rabbi’s son would honor her parents. I know that’s unromantic, but… it’s the truth.”

“S-so you and me is just what ha-happens when two people fi-find the good in a shitty situation?” Bill sounds almost hurt, and Stan immediately shakes his head.

“You and I are what happens when two people come together and build something genuine out of the reality they’ve been given. That’s what all relationships should be, I think. Being unsure of what things would’ve been like if we’d been completely different people with different experiences doesn’t make what we have now any less valid or real to me, and I hope it doesn’t to you either.”

“W-we still would have fuh-found our way together. No matter wh-what. It might have ta-taken us longer, but we were _meant_ to.” Stan doesn’t believe in meant-to-be’s and soul mates, but he knows that Bill does. Bill’s happiness hinges on fairy tale endings, on fate, on the idea that everything happens for a reason, even if you can’t see that reason easily or clearly at the time. Stan would never want to take that away from him.

“I know, Bill.” It’s more of a placation than a lie, but it’s untrue nonetheless. “And I’m glad we did. I’m happy it was you.” That, at least, Stanley can say completely honestly. Bill kisses him slowly and he sinks into it, gently stroking Bill’s jaw. Stan wants to just allow himself to be happy with now, with this moment and all that it means to both of them. Tells himself to just savor what they’ve got now and not push his luck. “But… I don’t think you ever liked another boy before me. And I didn’t like… anyone.” He shrugs almost sheepishly, looking down. “I tried to. I stared at Bev at the quarry just trying to see what you were all looking at, and I _get_ it, I just… didn’t feel it. When we Forget what brought us together, you might end up straight and I might end up not feeling _anything_ again and I don’t see a way to fix that or make it better. I’m… sorry.” Stan isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for - his possible future lack of feelings, his lack of answers, maybe for bringing this up in the first place. Bill just shakes his head, looking way more calm than Stan expects him to be. Way calmer than Stan himself feels.

“That wuh-won’t happen.” Bill sounds incredibly certain. “We’ll Fuh-Forget slowly. M-maybe even slower than the o-others will be-because we’ll be together.” Stan doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything. He tries to school the annoyed impatience off of his face, but he knows he’s failed. Bill doesn’t look put off in the slightest by it. “W-we can make a lot of m-me-memories outside of Derry in that time. Things It c-can’t take from us. I-it can make me Forget the an-anniversary of our first kiss, it can m-make me Forget why we buh-bonded. B-but it can’t erase you f-from my heart when you’re still there n-next to me, m-making me feel the way you do while the m-memories f-fade. All I need to r-remember in the morning is how I f-felt for you you when I ki-kissed you goodnight, and we’ll b-be okay.” The speech is sappy and over-romanticized, and some determinedly unsentimental part of Stan rebels against the saccharine words even as the rest of his body curls into Bill’s chest. After everything Bill had said, Stan knows he should give him SOMETHING in return. Some reassurance, some emotion, something to let Bill know that he wasn’t alone in this. The words that actually come are none of those things.

“Was I supposed to remember the anniversary of our first kiss too? Because I have no idea when that happened.” He almost winces at the words, but Bill just laughs against his hair.

“I kn-know you don’t. And it’s okay. Be-because I know what I want my present to be already.” Stan sighs with relief. He hates having to pick out gifts for people, a fact that the other losers were all perfectly aware of. Most of them just told him something specific so he could stop obsessing, and more than once he’d just given Richie cash a week before his actual birthday and let him loose in the secondhand store, the other boy always giving him back a used denim jacket to wrap and pretend he’d picked out himself. For a more sentimental holiday like an anniversary he’d be absolutely lost, so Bill just telling him the appropriate gift is more than ideal.

“Okay, good. What is it?” Stan looks up at Bill curiously, and Bill smiles in a way that tells Stan very clearly that he’s going to hate whatever he’s being asked for.

“Yuh-you have to accept ro-romance from me. All day. N-no matter what I do. Even if I b-bring you flowers. Or wr-write you poetry.” Stan gags.

“So what you’re saying is we’re breaking up 344 days into our relationship.” Stan’s voice is dry, and he meets Bill’s eyes with a straight face for only a few seconds before breaking into laughter. A moment later, Bill follows.

“Honestly, Stan? I l-let you off the hook ab-about replying to my v-very heartfelt plan f-for our future and you rep-repay me by dumping me?” Bill doesn’t sound serious, still laughing softly, but Stan can’t risk the idea that there’s any real doubt in him.

“I’ll still let you hold my hand when you have typewriter grease and ink under your nails.” It sounds like a non-sequitur, but Bill clearly understands. 

“I’ll still let y-you hold my hand after you snap at me for an-annoying you with affection when you’re trying to do math.” Stan laughs, pressing his palm to Bill’s, lacing their fingers gently together. Bill gives him a squeeze in return. 

“You should. Don’t let me push you away. If I Forget that we were this close…” Stan trails off, uncomfortable even asking something like this.

“I’ll r-remind you.” Bill kisses Stan’s lips softly, and Stan smiles against them, leaning up to deepen the kiss. There’s no way to have all of the answers about the future, but Bill’s words had reassured him in the way only Bill ever could. Bill isn’t an obstacle for him to navigate on this uncertain road; he’s a partner, a support, a cornerstone for Stan to count on. Stan doesn’t believe in fairytales, but he trusts Bill, and he trusts that Bill means it when he says he wants them to work out. 

He’s never felt more secure.


	21. Tewnty

The more Bill thinks about Stan’s role in his future, the more insecure he becomes.

It isn’t because he isn’t sure he wants Stan there - quite the opposite, actually. It’s becoming harder and harder every day for him to not tell the other boy that he’s in love with him. He’s given up on dreaming up any romantic fantasies of how it should go, but he also knows that Stan isn’t ready to hear it yet. Not to mention that he would never do it in this town - he wants to remember it happening for the rest of his life, and he’s already resigned himself to losing the memories of their puppy love courtship. He’s written down everything he can remember about it, sans-Clown, but part of him knows that even if he reads it in ten years he’ll just think he’d imagined it all. He’s already decided to wait for their first time at full-on sex for the very same reason, not wanting to lose that memory to the sewers, not wanting to let the Clown take anything else important to him away.

The problem is that he can’t tell if Stan feels the same way. He knows that Stan cares, that Stan _wants_ him. He knows that Stan has been trying so hard, and he’s so grateful for it. But he also knows that there’s something holding Stan back from fully committing to him, to their future. Bill knows that his future lies within the other boy. He wants this to last for the rest of their lives. He wants to put a ring on Stan’s finger, a silent but obvious show of their commitment to one another even if they’ll never be allowed to make it legally official. He wants them to have a home together, possibly have children somehow and even adopt a dog. He’d happily grow old with this man at his side, can picture them at seventy on a park bench holding hands and tossing breadcrumbs to the birds. He’s just not sure that Stan feels the same.

Bill would understand Stanley being insecure about the unstable nature of their future as it is right now - Stan likes plans and structure and absolutes, and not knowing how the Forgetting will affect them hasn’t been easy on him. That isn’t the part that worries Bill. Stan’s need for order and control are things he’s grown incredibly used to over their lives, and he knows that Stan is way stronger than he gives himself credit for. That once he’s actually in the situation he’ll hit the ground running even through his little stumbles. His worry is about what Stanley WANTS with him. Stan’s lack of sentimentality might factor into it a little, but Bill always has trouble telling exactly what kind of future Stan wishes them to have.

Bill understands that he’ll always love Stan harder than Stanley loves him - probably to an unhealthy degree if he’s being honest, his idealism blending in with his fear of losing another person that he loves, mixing into a dangerous cocktail of clingy and codependent. But some of Stan’s habits make him wonder if Stan is on his way to love at ALL. He’s always wan to talk about future plans, and the rare few times that Bill has gotten him to have been filled with independence, things like “MY apartment” or “I’M going to do this”, nary an “our” or “we” to be found. He can’t tell if Stan just doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it, or if he honestly sees his future as HIS future, when Bill’s heart beats for THEIRS.

He tries his hardest not to see it that way. Tries to picture their future the way he wants it, stable and TOGETHER and bursting at the seams with quiet love. His heart _knows_ that Stan is capable of letting them be that if he tries, and he clings to his dream of them in a small house in a small town, a small band ring on each of their left ring fingers. Of kisses over coffee in the morning, of a beautifully kempt but mentally frazzled accountant coming home to cuddle with him and bitch about his day before dinner. But sometimes the sweet fantasy fades, leaves him less secure. Stan’s future plans always sound perfectly practical, orderly, neat, _solitary_. He’s not sure how a bumbling artist fits into that structure, if having him and his mess around will become something that Stan just tolerates once Stan forgets their history together. If he’ll become the boyfriend that Stan is embarrassed to tell his accounting buddies about, the one he always makes excuses to avoid having to take to networking events. The messy writer who forgets to shave when he’s got writer’s block, who misses dates and deadlines when his inspiration is making the words flow smoothly, the guy whose nails are stained gray from typewriter ink.

That doesn’t mean he’s considered ending things. The thought of Stan not wanting to be with only makes him cling harder to the other boy, makes him more desperate to make sure Stanley wants him, NEEDS him, in every way possible. He’s done his best to make it clear that Stan could depend on him in every way, forcing himself to have conversations he didn’t ever want to have, to learn everything he could possibly know about how to care for Stan through his depression and OCD. He thinks that, when Stan realizes that he can depend on him for anything, more than ANYONE else, Stan might appreciate the clinginess, might see it as the love it’s intended to be. 

He thinks they’ll need the clinginess eventually - when they’re out of Derry, when they’re starting to Forget, Stan might pull away from him. If he eases up in the slightest, Stan could slip right through his fingers. The home they’ve made with one another could crumble to nothing, and he can’t risk losing Stan that way. Stan had practically ASKED him not to, had needed Bill to be sure enough to remind him of what they had when Stan started to forget and drift away. It’s a little bit painful that Stan is already sure he’ll pull away, but just knowing that he doesn’t _want_ to is enough to keep Bill fighting for their future. He can only hope that it’s enough.

He’s thought about talking about this with Stan dozens of times - he’s the one who’d asked for Stan to have no secrets from him, and he knows how much Stan hates him being hypocritical about things like that. But no matter how many times he tries to bring it up, the words don’t come. He knows that part of the reason is for Stan’s sake - they’ve been working so hard for such a long time on getting Stan to just _relax_ with Bill, to not overthink every second of their time together, to not worry that he’s doing something wrong. Bringing this up could make Stan feel insecure again, send him back to that place of being more worried about portraying a character for everyone else than being comfortable in the moment. Bill would hate to be the cause of that, and it really does play a part in why he hasn’t spoken up yet.

If he’s being honest, though? Even that pales in comparison to the fear. Fear that he’ll overwhelm Stan and scare him away. That saying all of this to Stan will make Stan realize that he _doesn’t_ want Bill there, that Bill is too impractical to bother trying to build anything with. That Bill is too _weak_. Stanley is the only person that Bill has been completely open with since **that** summer, the only one he’d let see his breakdowns. He’d only been able to be strong for the others because he had Stan there, absorbing his distress, giving him strength just by sticking around. The thought of losing that makes him feel vulnerable in a way that he has always hated. Talking about this means risking going back to being alone, being _lonely_ , and Bill isn’t ready for that. He knows what he needs to do, what he’s ALWAYS needed to do when trying to secure a future with Stanley Uris by his side.

He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back! Hopefully to finish this pup, hopefully some people are still going to read it. The chapters aren't all going to be this short, next one is almost triple.


	22. Twenty-One

“I need you to teach me everything you know about gay sex.” Stan regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but Richie is already grinning lecherously at him.

“Whoa-ho, Stan the Man! I know I’m hot shit, but you’re gonna need a better line than that if you want to get in my fucking pants!” Richie crows with laughter and Stan just sighs, rolling his eyes like the most tired person on the planet. Richie pats the spot next to him on the bed, and Stan reluctantly goes to sit with him. “Why are you asking me? I mean, I’m not saying no. I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that. But this seems like more of a boyfriend problem than a best friend one.”

“Because I’m not ready to actually _do_ anything. And I don’t want to get his hopes up by bringing it up to him.” Stan won’t meet Richie’s eyes - as much as he hates to admit it, he’s _embarrassed_ about this. He’s close to a year into a relationship with someone he trusts, someone he cares about and WANTS and loves, though in how many ways he’s still not entirely sure. Someone who is out of his league in both looks and personality, yet always treats Stan like _he’s_ the special one, like BILL the the lucky one to have HIM. He should be begging this boy to take his virginity, but he isn’t. Something is holding him back, something that keeps him from being normal. He hates it. “I just want to know how it works. For when it does happen.”

“O-kay then. Did you think you wanted to top, or bottom?” Stan gives Richie a mildly panicked look.

“I don’t know? Am I supposed to get a choice? Don’t people just **know** that kind of thing when it happens?” Stan scratches agitatedly at his jaw, and Richie slaps his hand away.

“Stop that. And dude, never fuck a guy who says you don’t get a choice. I promise you, he doesn’t have your pleasure in mind and he won’t treat you good. I’ll have to kill him for your honor, and we both know I laid down my bat years ago.” Stan stops scratching, forces himself to squeeze his knee instead. Richie picks at his already chipped nail polish, little flecks of black raining down to the floor. Stan brushes away one that lands on his khakis. “Some people like one or the other, and some people like both. Fuck, some people don’t like either one and just, I don’t know, suck dick forever.”

“Can’t you just tell which one I am? It would be helpful.” Being straight has a biological structure ingrained into it, is obvious. Stan misses that about it, though he can’t remember a time he’d actually wanted to do those things with a woman. It hadn’t seemed necessary to think about what he actually wanted until he’d stopped following his parents’ plan for him. 

“Nobody can do that, kid. Yeah, there are roles that most people I’ve met fit into pretty good, but nobody can say that you’re supposed to be a bottom because you’re thin and girly. Or that Bill has to be a top because he’s all rugged and manly.” Richie lets out an exaggerated sexual groan, and Stan swats annoyedly at his head. Richie just grins. 

“All I want to do is like what Bill likes. I’m not worried about the rest of it, I just want to be…” _’Normal’_ , Stan’s mind supplies. He doesn’t speak the word aloud, but Richie hears it anyway.

“Screw normalcy, Stanley. You came this far away from that sad, pathetic settling you were planning on fucking doing. You don’t have to give up your enjoyment of literally the best feeling in the world because you can’t decide which way you want to try feeling it first.” Richie lets out a rakish grin, and Stan is already groaning in frustration. “Besides, I’m sure all BILL thinks about is doing what YOU like. Literally, **all** he thinks about. Every day.”

“Richie…” Stan’s voice is warning, a deep sort of annoyed that borders on affectionate. 

“While he’s jerking it.” Stan shoves Richie’s shoulder agitatedly, and Richie just laughs. “Now, no need to abuse me, Stanley. I might just be into that.” Stan moves like he’s going to stand up but Richie just holds his shoulders so he can’t, laughing at Stan’s most threatening glare.

“I want a divorce.” There’s no real heat behind Stan’s words, and even less when the realization crosses Stan’s mind that he’ll get one only a month from now… way too soon for his liking. He’s hugging Richie before he can stop himself, and Richie gives him a tight squeeze in return, the mood of the room going from playful to somber. Richie places an affectionate peck to the top of Stan’s hair, and for once Stan allows it.

“You just have to make me be the voice of reason, don’t you?” Richie flicks a chip of his nail polish at Stan and Stan shoves him away, both boys fighting back sniffles. “You should talk to Bill about this. He’s really the only person who can tell you what he’s comfortable trying and where his boundaries are.”

“But you don’t GET it, RIchie. Bill is just… he’s so confident and experienced, and I’m just this stupid uninformed virgin and I’m scared I won’t _like_ it…” Stan hadn’t been planning to admit that, to Richie or anyone else. His eyes narrow on the floor, and he starts to count the knots of the hardwood. One, two, three…

“Hey, focus!” Richie snaps, waving his hand in front of Stan’s face. Stan sighs. “I think what you’re scared of is that you WILL like it. And it’ll mean you’re officially somebody that you didn’t fucking think you were, no going back. It’ll mean Hockstetter was right about the names he called you. And you gotta let that shit go, cause you know better than anyone that doing things you hate based on what other people expect eats you fucking alive.”

“Yeah, I know all about being eaten alive.” Stan’s quip is neither an agreement or a brushoff - What Richie had said sounds reasonable enough to be true, but he can’t commit to such a thing without really thinking it over first. Richie just rolls his eyes.

“Good. Glad that’s settled. Now I can go back to laughing my sweet ass off about how you think Big Bill is _experienced_ and not just a giant bumbling nerd virgin.” Stan squints in confusion at Richie.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Bill’s HOT, and he’s CONFIDENT, and… of course he’s not a virgin.” The protest sounds weak, but Stanley still feels incredibly sure that he’s right. Richie just shakes his head and tuts disapprovingly.

“Heat and confidence don’t automatically make you a nympho, Stan-O. Sure, that can help get you laid, but they don’t just send us confident men a free hooker when we turn eighteen.” Stan rolls his eyes at the joke, and Richie continues. “You know Bill is a sentimental asshole, and you know there hasn’t been anybody serious in his life before you. Do you think he’d be okay popping his cherry with just anyone? What kind of first time would it be for Prince Billiam the Stalwart if he was just fucking somebody he didn’t love knowing that his heart belonged to another?”

“Bev.” Stan’s voice is soft and hollow, the name coming out almost reflexively to defend him from the idea that Bill could love him. Richie slaps him across the back of the head.

“ _You_ , dingus! Denbrough might be a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of guy who would lead you on for a year if he still wanted Beverly. You wouldn’t LIKE him if he was that guy.” Stan knows that about Bill, he truly does. If Bill were that selfish, he never would have had the willpower to put this much work into a relationship with him. He’d have given up the second he realized it wouldn’t be easy, and he wouldn’t have looked back. The scars run deep though, and he doesn’t know how to stop his mind from automatically ascribing Beverly a higher value than himself in Bill’s eyes.

“I know. I haven’t figured out how to stop just… immediately thinking that. But I know. What I _don’t_ know is what to do about the sex.” He hasn’t let the Beverly concern go, exactly. That concern will always be there, at least until he Forgets. The matter of sex is what he’d originally come for anyway, and it’s something that he honestly thinks Richie can help him fix. The other boy’s answer leaves something to be desired.

“Best thing I can say is to talk it out with Bill, Stanny. You’re both seriously lacking in experience, so neither of you are really gonna know going into it what you like. You have to think about what you would be into trying out with him, and you should ask him to do that too. The things that you both agree on, you should do. With tons and tons of lube. The stuff you like will give you a better idea of other things you might be into trying. The stuff you don’t like, you can either work on improving or just never do again.”

“Is that what you did?” Stan honestly isn’t sure WHAT Richie’s deal is. He’s always maintained that he’d lost his virginity to Sonia Kaspbrak, and beyond that obvious lie are dubious accounts of sexual adventures with a bevy of different people from town, ranging from implausible (the librarian, the man who runs the arcade and his wife) to unlikely-but-believable (Greta Keane, Peter Gordon). Stan had never wanted to hear any more details than strictly necessary about Richie’s ever-growing list of probably fake sexual encounters, but it seems like valuable knowledge now. Part of him wonders if he’s been a bad friend in the past for not questioning it more, for not doing more to push past Richie’s wall and hear his real stories. Richie gives Stan a tired smile.

“No. I was upset after getting blown off for the millionth time by…” Richie hesitates, and Stan isn’t sure why when they both know exactly who he’s talking about. Maybe saying Eddie’s name out loud would make it worse. Make it real. “ _Someone_ , someone that I actually liked. So I rode my bike up to Dexter and snuck into a bar. I met some older guy there… He was cute I guess, or at least I’m imagining him to be, but I don’t remember his name. He took me to the cab of his truck and…” Richie shrugs, and Stan winces. This sounds terrible, and is the emptiest and most horrifying consensual sexual encounter he can even imagine. His heart clings tighter to the safety and familiarity and incredible _warmth_ he’d found in Bill Denbrough. “It was okay. I mean, it felt good. Sex feels good. But I’m always gonna remember that my first was with no one and meant nothing, and that feels like dogshit. So I can tell you that stumbling through figuring it out with a guy who loves the fuck out of you isn’t something you’re ever gonna regret.“ Stan’s insecurities make a brief attempt to fight Richie’s use of the word “love”, but part of him knows that the concept is accurate. He sets aside his panic over that for now, and the confusion that he’s not even MORE panicked. There will be time for those later.

“You’ll find someone who realizes how special you are, Rich. All of your times with that person will be meaningful.” Richie lets out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Well, hopefully not ALL of the times. Gotta leave some space for the raw carnal lust, right? Just ask your mom.” Richie’s voice doesn’t have the same pep it normally does, and Stan wants to comfort him somehow, wants to fix the problem his questions had caused. He sighs and raises his hand, waiting for a high five. Richie gapes.

“You tell anyone about this and I’ll unwind all of your cassettes and braid the tape together.” Even the obvious threat doesn’t stop Richie from grinning as he slaps his hand against Stan’s.

*

Knowing that he needs to talk about sex with Bill is significantly easier than actually DOING it. Their schedule is refreshingly lighthearted on a normal basis, and in between the homework and the lazy afternoons at the barrens and the new addition of _touches_ to the routine, there’s very limited time left for serious talks. Stan has spent days looking for the proper time to bring something like that up, but it never feels comfortable. He realizes he’ll just have to say it, right time or not.

“D-do you want spuh-spaghetti and meatballs, or macaroni w-with chicken?” Bill is facing the pantry, looking through what they’ve got available.

“We need to talk about sex.” Stan’s words are no-nonsense, serious. The words hang uncomfortably between them. “Oh. And spaghetti.” The awkwardness breaks as Bill laughs into the pantry. The two of them meet at the kitchen table, sitting across from one another, their fingers naturally lacing together between them though Stan honestly doesn’t remember which of them had reached for the other.

“Okay. Wuh-what about it?” To Stan’s immense relief, Bill doesn’t look like he expects this conversation to lead to anything physical. Still, Stanley can’t meet his eyes.

“I guess I just want to know what you expect. What you want us to do. I can pretty much guess what CAN go where, but I don’t really know how, or what of it you’d want to try.” Stan rubs nervously at a graphite smudge on the side of Bill’s finger. Bill doesn’t even try to stop him.

“I want… e-everything.” Bill laughs a little, nervous, and his unsureness makes Stan look back up at him. Bill is practically blushing, and he looks quite bashful. “Not here, not in Duh-Derry where we’ll f-forget it. But I would love to be in-inside you, everywhere you’ll let me. And… I want to try huh-having you in me too.” Bill runs a hand through his hair, mussing it, teeth chewing at his lower lip. Stan doesn’t know much about sex, but he understands how uncomfortable it is for Bill to give up control like that. He gently squeezes Bill’s hand.

“I’d like to try all of that with you. Beyond that, I’m not sure. I don’t know…” Stan sighs. “I’ve never really thought about this. I just figured one day I’d have a wife and we’d just… do it.” Stan shrugs, hating how stupid and empty the words sound.

“I-is that what you want? To wait for m-marriage? To get muh-married at all?” Bill obviously hadn’t meant to say that out loud, ears turning pink though he looks rather hopeful. Stan can’t stop the quick comeback that bursts up from his throat.

“Aren’t we a little young to be thinking about that?” Stanley knows that his joke had fallen flat immediately, and he gives Bill an apologetic look. Bill just smiles and waits, not angry at him but also not letting him off the hook. Stan sighs. “I don’t know, Bill. Getting married and having kids were always just… what I was expected to do. There was never a reason to question if I really wanted to.”

“Un-until now?” Bill looks hopeful, blue eyes bright. “I know we c-couldn’t have a r-real wedding, but I want to wuh-wear rings someday. If that’s okay.” Stan expects to be far more discomforted by the idea, but the warmth spreading through his chest dulls everything else.

“Give me some time?” There’s concern in Bill’s eyes, and Stan immediately leans over to kiss him. “I’m not saying never, Bill. But we’re only eighteen, we’ve been together for less than a year, and I’ve never thought about what I actually WANT before. Can we talk about it again in a few years?” Stan can tell that Bill hates the request. Bill has probably thought about marrying his handsome prince (or, more likely, beautiful princess) since childhood. But Stan doesn’t want there to be lies between himself and Bill, and telling Bill that he wants to get married without considering it at all feels like a falsehood.

“Am I doing suh-something wrong?” Bill’s words are earnest and soft, almost sad. Stan blinks in surprise.

“Wrong?” All Stan can do is repeat the word, trying to figure out what Bill is even talking about. Bill chews his lip.

“I’ve known it w-was you for years. I don’t even h-have to qu-question that I want fuh-forever with you. But you’re still n-not sure about me, about US, and I don’t know wuh-what to do about that. If you t-tell me what I’m d-doing wrong, I can fix it.” Stan kisses Bill’s lips hard, hand running up and down his arm.

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Bill. I want to be with you. I’m not questioning whether or not I want us to have a future. But marriage…” Stan sighs. He hates that everything always has to go back to this somehow. “My dad was really intense about me getting married. He would give me these longwinded lectures about what kind of husband I was expected to be, what kind of wife I was expected to choose. He’d pretty much picked out the girl he wanted me to marry already. I’ve always known what I was supposed to do, and I used to like that. I wasn’t excited about my future, but having that role to play felt safe.” Stan looks down at the table, swallows hard. He’s not good at expressing emotions, not good at being the center of attention. But Bill is still there, waiting for him to continue, eyes impatient and nervous though he’s still giving Stan the time he needs to gather himself before speaking again. He presses on.

“Then you kissed me, and… it changed everything I thought I knew. I know it should have been freeing, and it was, but it was also kind of overwhelming. Gay wasn’t even really a thought in my mind until a few months before then, and accepting that I am doesn’t automatically make it easier to think about things that way. I have to take every situation one by one and replace everything I’ve been taught about it. Boys can date their friends, boys can kiss and sleep together and…” Stan clears his throat. “ _Sleep_ together. I’ve dealt with all of that already. But when I picture marriage, all I can think about is Sarah Frischmann walking up to me in a ridiculous poofy dress and trying to resign myself to a life of pretending to love her. I can’t see it as something affectionate. I need to fix that before I can honestly say I want us to get married. I don’t want to say it until I’m as excited to be your husband as I have been for everything else we’ve done together. Is that okay?” He’s scared for a moment that Bill will say no - he’s not sure he’s explained himself right, not sure that it even matters. Stan’s need to redefine the idea of marriage in his mind before he can really consider doing it barely makes any sense to STAN, and he can’t be sure that Bill won’t take it as an insult. When Bill smiles and tucks a curl behind Stan’s ear, Stan starts to breathe again.

“I w-want the day I propose to b-be the huh-happiest day of your life. I can wait un-until then.” Bill smiles softly, calls back to their original conversation. “I can wait for anyth-thing. As long as you stuh-stay with me.” Stan can’t help but smile back, his voice soft and thick with emotion.

“Thank you.” It isn’t nearly enough, and Stan knows that. Bill is constantly accepting of Stan’s issues, his insecurities and flaws. He always puts in the effort to really understand what Stanley is going through, doesn’t push him too hard, gives him time to grow into the changes of their relationship without feeling pressured into it. He wishes he could express that to Bill in a way worthy of the other boy, but Bill had always been better at purple prose than Stan is. He leans over for a kiss instead, trying to let Bill know how he was feeling without words, hoping that would be enough. He’s relieved when Bill returns the kiss, smiling against his mouth.

“Th-thank me by making the muh-meatballs.” Stan is almost confused for a moment, then laughs as Bill pulls him up out of the chair, the two of them starting to make dinner together. It’s comfortable in spite of the serious conversation they’d just had, the residual tenseness clearing as they fall into an easy routine, trading kisses and playful tickles as they reach across one another to get to the stove. Stan knows that this conversation isn’t entirely over - he’ll have to think more about marriage, about sex, and they’ll have to talk this through again someday. 

After seeing how well things have gone this time, Stan can’t even bring himself to dread it.


	23. Twenty-Two

Two weeks before they’re supposed to leave Derry, and for the first time in almost three years, Bill has a nightmare. 

He knows it’s a nightmare because he’s entirely aware that he’s in Richie’s basement. Richie had insisted that they all meet for a last sleepover weekend, had even wanted it enough to invite the others to stay over at his house for the first time ever. He’d scored a joint for them, insisting that they all had to try some, that it was a rite of passage for them to smoke it together. With the threat of their friendships ending looming above them no one had complained, even Eddie taking a puff though he’d clearly hated it. Bill and Richie had smoked the most, playfully ragging on one another when it seemed like the other would quit, bonding in the only way that he and Richie had ever known how. Neither one of them wanting to admit that this would be the last time.

The pot had made them all sleepy, and in spite of them wanting to savor every moment together none of them had really been able to stay awake after smoking. So Bill knows without a doubt that he’s still there. He can vaguely feel the hot puffs of Stan’s breath against his collarbone, the weight of his body atop Bill’s the way it is every night. If he really focuses he can smell Stan’s shampoo, feel the slight tickle of his hair as Bill’s own breath disturbs the curls pressed to his nose and mouth. He _knows_ he’s still lying on Richie’s basement floor.

Knowing the reality of the situation doesn’t change anything. He still finds himself in Memorial Park, staring at the Standpipe. He tries his hardest to wake up, tries to focus on Stan in his arms, but his legs begin to move him closer to the building anyway. To the park bench near the birdbath where Stanley used to come on sunny afternoons before the day **that** summer when everything had changed for him. He’s unsurprised to see Stan there now. Every fiber in his being knows that this isn’t really Stan. The nightmare boy smiles up at Bill when he reaches the bench, serene and pleased in a way that Stan never has been. A turtle crawls up onto the boy’s lap.

“You made it.” The voice is almost right, almost Stan’s. There’s a strange echo behind it that unnerves Bill to the core.

“Wuh-what do you want?” Bill tries to keep his voice even and commanding, but it clearly comes out more defensive. Fake Stan doesn’t even flinch.

“I wanted to tell you the good news. I finally got home. I found them, Billy. I found the lights.” _‘I looked into Its deadlights, and I wanted to be there.’_ He suddenly sees dozens of turtles crawling over the bench, the disparate motions making him dizzy. Why are there so many fucking turtles? Stan’s face gives him a mock-sad look. “Aren’t you happy for me?” 

One of the turtles nips at a scar on Stan’s chin, rips the skin from his jaw with a sickening squelch. He waits to see the blood as he had so many nights in the past, almost immune to it now though it had been so long since the last time he’d dreamt of this. Instead a bright, blinding light radiates from the hole. Bill gapes soundlessly at the sight as the other turtles follow the first’s lead, crawling up Stan’s chest and shoulders, biting at every scarred-over gash, tearing the wounds open again. The light gets brighter with every hole, consumes Bill’s mind, makes him unable to do more than stare. When the turtles recede Stan’s body once again stares up at him, looking utterly unbothered by everything that had just happened, barely even seeming to notice the luminescent gashes. He flashes the Creature’s toothy smile.

*

Bill comes back to himself with a gasp, body jerking. He’s in Richie’s basement, just as he’d remembered. A bleary-eyed Stan is lying on his chest, squinting up at him, voice barely above a whisper when he speaks. 

“Are you okay?” Stan’s voice is rough with exhaustion, his body sleep-warm, his face still dotted with healed-over scars. Bill fights the urge to kiss them, forces a smile.

“Fuh-fine. Weird druh-dream.” He really doesn’t want to have to explain this to Stan. This had been one of the least gruesome nightmares he’d ever had about It, and yet something about it felt the most important, the most _unsettling_ in a way that he can’t even explain to himself. Stan lets out a little huffy laugh against his skin.

“I knew you smoked too much.” Stan’s voice is both scolding and caring at the same time. Bill wants so badly to believe that was the only reason. That he was stoned and paranoid and had given himself a nightmare. He knows it’s a lie. This hadn’t been the same as his other nightmares. It had sounded and smelled and _felt_ different. He had known he was asleep the entire time, and yet he was more aware than he’d ever known he was capable of being. He can’t help but think that he was meant to see something, to NOTICE something about this dream. He needs to think about what he’d seen, to pore over the details, to figure out what he’s being told.

“M-maybe you’re right.” Bill says instead, squeezing Stan’s body tighter. “Let’s just g-go back to sleep.” Stan mumbles an agreement and is asleep within seconds, nuzzled comfortably into Bill’s chest. Bill doesn’t even try to close his eyes again.

*

The nightmare follows Bill for days afterward. He hasn’t had it again, but his waking hours have been filled with the unwelcome distraction of trying to figure out why _this_ dream had felt so different to the others. The others had always been more menacing, more _urgent_. They’d always ended in an attack, in a death that he couldn’t prevent, a loss that would make him crazed with grief and failure until he awoke again and realized it wasn’t real. This one had felt almost laid-back, like they’d had all of the time in the world to talk. As though he and The Creature had been two old friends catching up in a park. He needs there to be something different about this one, NEEDS to ascribe a higher meaning to it, or he won’t be able to stop thinking about it.

Usually, those nightmares only feature them as they were **that** summer, barely teens yet, gangly and skinny and small. But this Stan had been eighteen, had been dressed in the blue cardigan Ben had gotten for Stan only few weeks earlier. Is that newness meaningful? He’s certain that the turtles have to mean something - a bench full of carnivorous turtles can’t simply be happenstance, after all. He’d tried to look it up at the library and the closest thing he’d found had been unhelpful. There were no chapters explaining ‘What it means when your lover is being attacked by tiny reptiles in your dream’, and the closest thing he could find suggested that the turtle meant that the dreamer is hiding something behind a facade, refusing to confront what’s bothering them. The dream had given these turtles to Stan though, not him. Stan is very much the person who swallows his emotions, tries his hardest not to let people see anything even close to weakness. Maybe he’s hiding something now, something that Bill should be noticing but isn’t. Fear of change, of leaving Derry and everyone in it behind?

Bill’s mind knows that it’s a reasonable answer, perfectly understandable and logical. He should feel elated that he’s figured it out, should feel accomplished. And yet he sits there in the library, clutching the book in his hands solemnly, listening to his heart scream out one word. _Wrong_.

*

Bill is suddenly aware of how many times a day Stan has been scratching at his facial scars. At least fifteen since the nightmare, though Bill can’t be completely sure it isn’t normal. They’re sitting side by side in bed, thighs pressed gently together, intimate and comfortable though they’re doing separate things. Stan is focused completely on the book in his lap, an old copy of Bill’s favorite Steinbeck novel, engrossed in it in a way that would make Bill glow with pride if he’d been able to think about anything besides that stupid dream. He’s pretending to write a story in his notepad, but really he’s listing out as many details as he can come up with about that dream, everything from the color of the grass to the strange clusters of eight symmetrical circular patterns atop the turtle shells. For the sixteenth time that day Stan’s fingers unconsciously raise to his face, this time rubbing hard at the healed-over scar on his temple. Bill can’t help himself from speaking.

“Is so-something happening with your face?” He’s sure he could’ve said that less suspiciously, had he tried. But he hasn’t been sleeping well the past few nights, isn’t thinking clearly. Stan’s lips twist, fingers moving to mark his page before he sets the book aside.

“I think I have nerve damage or something. It’s mostly okay, but sometimes the scarred spots will go numb, or get this… prickly tingle. I can’t explain it. Kind of like when your foot falls asleep.” Stan shrugs a little, trying to make it seem like less of a big deal than it obviously is. “It’s happened pretty consistently since the bite, though. It’s been too long to still be an infection, so it has to be nerve damage.” The explanation makes perfect sense, really. Bill’s brain supplies dozens of times in the past few years when he’d caught Stan scratching at his jaw or forehead, times that he’d remarked that the scarred-over marks still hurt him sometimes. The dream was his brain telling him to notice the things it already knew so he could support his boyfriend better. Right? 

Bill reaches a hand up to cup Stan’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek gently, unsure of what he’s expecting to find there. All he feels is Stan’s smooth skin beneath his fingertip, even the scarring faded so much that it barely causes a bump. Everything feels normal. Stan anticipates the question that Bill isn’t asking.

“I can’t feel that. Most of the time I can, but not today.” No matter how much Bill wishes this were the revelation he’d been waiting for, he knows there’s something else. His fingers continue to trace over the bites, touch more careful than it ever has been though he knows that Stan won’t feel it if he presses harder. He’s almost afraid to.

“Ma-maybe when we Forget, it’ll heal. We wuh-won’t even remember you got h-hurt.” Something in Bill’s mind pushes hard, insists that he not Forget. Tries again to make him focus on the dream. That he find a way to see meaning in this before it’s too late. _Before It takes Him_ , something echoes in his mind, the same quiet echo that had been behind Not-Stan’s voice in the park. He’s still stroking Stan’s face, the other boy looking at him with concern. 

“Billy?” There are multiple unspoken questions in the air. ‘Are you okay?’, ‘What’s gotten into you?’, ‘Why are you suddenly so intense about my face?’ Bill allows his hand to drop, lets out a deep breath.

“F-fine. I’m fine. Go back to your b-book.” Stan shoots Bill one last worried glance before picking the book back up again, leaning closer to Bill as he starts to read, comforting without calling attention to it. Bill closes his eyes, buries his face in Stan’s hair, and tries to make his mind go quiet. It _can’t_ get Stan now. It’ll be asleep for another 23 years yet, and he’ll have Stan out of Derry in just over a week. It was just a dream.

It doesn’t mean anything.


	24. Twenty-Three

Stan only has to last one more week in Derry before he and Bill start driving west. _One more week_. It’s the mantra he repeats to himself when he starts to hear the voices.

They’re not Pennywise, that much he knows. None of the missing kids either, at least none that he recognizes by voice alone. He’s not even certain the sound is truly audible, feeling it in his chest more than in his eardrums, a vibration beneath his skin. 

He’s riding his bike back from the Hanlon’s farm - he’d taken The Notebook to Mike, wanted to explain the contents in private before giving such an important item away. Mike had seemed almost horrified by the depth of information written neatly out, but Stan had simply shrugged it off. He’d pored over that book dozens of times before, knew the contents word for word. There was very little in that book that could still get a rise out of him now. 

His commute home is barely five miles long, and Stan’s ridden it enough times to know the way by muscle memory alone. He allows his mind to wander as he pedals, a sweet, oddly soothing breeze blowing his curls in every direction. He’d usually hate that, but he can’t find it in him to be upset today, allowing the whisper of the air to wash over him. He assumes he’s home when his bike stops, figures he’d simply lost track of the time enjoying the beauty of the day. When he looks up, he’s staring directly at a decrepit old house framed with dead plants and piles of used needles and broken glass. The Neibolt house. He can still feel the wind, but it’s uncomfortably warm now, like he’s being breathed on from all sides. Suffocatingly warm. 

_Come Home_ , a voice just below his left ear hisses, impossibly close to his skin. The words are repeated by a second voice somewhere above his right ear, then murmured by at least a dozen others, surrounding his body. He whips his head around, sees nothing, gasps for air. He’s frozen in place. The creak of a door opening jars him from his stupor, feet immediately hitting the pedals on his bike and starting to frantically move, bike jerking precariously as he rides away. He doesn’t see anything leave Neibolt, doesn’t feel anything following him, but he still doesn’t calm down until he’s safe at the Denbrough house.

*

A warm, serene glow surrounds Stan’s body. He’s not entirely sure where his body _is_ , but that hardly seems to matter right now, not when he’s so comfortable. The Light pulses and swirls around him, gets brighter. Impossibly bright. He knows it should hurt his eyes, but the sharpness of the glow only increases his feeling of calm. A soft, wet sound rings in his ears, like a baby suckling on a pacifier. The Light calls him in deeper, embracing him, making him whole. _It’s been so, **so** long…_

He awakens gasping for breath, the sense of _loss_ so intense that it brings tears to his eyes. There’s a hollow feeling in the center of his chest, making it hard to breathe. He raises his head from Bill’s chest, trying to get some cooler air, and realizes he’s surrounded by Them. Georgie brightens when they lock eyes, waving His one good hand, the excited motion making the torn-up viscera at His other shoulder jiggle beneath the shredded arm of His rain slicker. Patrick Hockstetter sits at Bill’s easel, looking every bit as dead as He always had, a fly buzzing around His sunken-in cheek before absorbing itself into the flesh, immediately making the skin beneath it rot. Betty Ripsom plays hopscotch near the window, giggling maniacally, tossing Her missing shoe to the two-foot squares instead of putting Her other foot down. The rich scent of decay fills the room.

The Flute Player stands at the foot of the bed, looming over he and Bill, all height and angles. She smiles down at them, teeth glinting in the moonlight, saliva trailing down between Her fangs. They stare at one another for way too long, neither of them moving. Stanley knows he should wake Bill up, but something holds him back from doing so. Keeps him quiet. She raises one of her slender arms toward Stan, palm up, as though She expects him to place his hand in hers. One by one, the dead children in the room all follow suit. Not attacking, not menacing. Simply waiting.

He tries again to find his voice, to wake Bill, but one glance down at the sleeping boy makes him reconsider. This isn’t real. It can’t be. It hasn’t been 27 years yet. Waking Bill would only make him worry over nothing. Make him think that Stan couldn’t hold it together.

“You’re not here.” Stan whispers into the room. No matter how hard he tries to tell himself that, he isn’t sure it’s true. His guests say nothing, just continue to loom over him, swaying strangely, palms outstretched toward him. Stanley looks away from the corpses, defiantly lays his head back onto Bill’s chest, closes his eyes. He’s not sure how long it takes him to fall asleep, but they’re all gone by morning.

*

He calls Beverly the next day while Bill is in the shower, his eyes trained firmly on the bathroom door to make sure Bill doesn’t come out while he’s speaking, not wanting him to know about this now. _He’d only worry_ , Stan’s mind argues. _There’s no need to make him do that_. It isn’t until he hears the clattering of the phone cord against the wall that he realizes how frayed his nerves are, hand shaking jerkily. He forces himself to calm down.

“Hello?” Bev’s voice is older than he’d remembered, but he’d still recognize her anywhere. His own words rush out in a gust of anxiety.

“The Deadlights felt good to you too, didn’t they?” He knows he should’ve started with something more pleasant, but he’s desperate. He knows she’ll understand, she _has to_ understand…

The dial tone clicks in his ear.

*

Stanley sits on the bench in Memorial Park wearing his favorite blue cardigan, next to his favorite birdbath, only a few yards away from the Standpipe. He hasn’t come here to bird watch since **that** summer, always too afraid and disgusted to come anywhere near this makeshift graveyard. But with Her showing up everywhere else, it doesn’t really matter much anymore. He’s resigned himself to it, in a way. It’s in his home, in his mind. Nowhere he can go that It can’t follow him. No hope.

A few wrens chirp in the birdbath, hopping and splashing around in the water. Stan watches them almost solemnly, though his attention never quite leaves the Standpipe door. It’s still closed, a sign hastily hung on it declaring it closed to the public. From the cracks in the wood, he can see a light on inside. The purest white Light he’s ever seen, though he knows that what lies behind the door is anything but. He’s expecting to feel afraid, but is filled with a pleasant sort of numbness instead. He won’t be surprised when It takes him. There will be pain, but it won’t last long. And after that, he’ll be granted access back into those ethereal Lights. He’s on his feet in anticipation, staring at the building, knowing the building is staring back. Two immovable objects. The chirping fades, the sun dims. Nothing exists beyond that door. 

He gasps and looks away when two strong hands grasp his shoulders and pull him backward.

“Stan! I was cuh-calling you!” Bill looks nearly panicked, and for a moment Stan wonders if he can see It too. If he knows what’s been happening to Stan. He still feels disoriented. The door is closer than it had been before, and Stan realizes dimly that he’d been walking toward it.

“I saw a robin…” The words are out of Stan’s mouth before he even realizes it, his voice thin and weak, unconvincing. Bill winces at the lie as though he’d been slapped.

“Okay. That’s okay. J-just… get on my bike? Pluh- _please_ , Stan. Let’s just go h-home.” Bill clearly knows that something is wrong, but Stan is almost certain that he doesn’t know what. Doesn’t see what Stan does. The Light gets brighter, and he feel a physical pull toward it. Aches to be inside. It takes all of his willpower to jump on the back of Bill’s bike, burying his face into Bill’s shoulder and clinging too tightly to Bill’s waist as his boyfriend starts to pedal. His eyes burn with tears, his scars feel like they’re on _fire_. Yet again he’s pulled back to **that** summer, jumping onto the back of Bill’s bike and begging for Bill to GO, outrunning an enemy that Bill hadn’t seen and Stan couldn’t unsee. They’d gotten away safe last time, been able to outrun it. BILL had been able to outrun it. 

“I can’t stop It, Bill. I can’t last another five days, we need to go. I need us to _go_ , Billy.” Stan’s voice comes out hollow and thin, slightly hysterical. “We have to leave. Tonight, we have to go tonight.” The pull of the Light gets weaker as they get further and further away from the Standpipe, but Stan knows It isn’t too far behind.

They rush into Bill’s house as soon as Silver hits the grass, Stan pulling Bill up the stairs and immediately starting to unpack their closet, shoving clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. His OCD tries to protest the messy creases and empty corners left in the suitcase, but Stan is far too overwhelmed for that now. Bill just stares, looking stricken.

“I-is it real? Are you ruh-really seeing…?” Stan can’t help but be a little annoyed that Bill is just standing there. He empties their drawers in a mad rush, then grabs Bill’s Georgie box from under the bed, tossing it atop the pile of clothes. The top slides off, the lego turtle rolling out, skittering across the mattress. Stan lowers a hand quickly to catch it, not wanting it to break, cradling it gently in his fingers.

“I don’t know. I can’t know. But if I don’t get out of here now, It’s going to get me. Even if It isn’t really there. I know that doesn’t make any sense, I can’t explain it, but I need you to get me out of here. I can’t outrun It on my own, Bill. You’re the only one fast enough. _Please_.” Stan knows that Bill isn’t the type to run away from a threat like this. If It really is back the entire town would be in danger, and the only Loser left to face it would be Mike. Bill isn’t the type to run away from a fight like that. Stan is more than a little bit ashamed to admit that he is. Bill looks conflicted and more than a little bit sick, almost frozen in his spot, staring at the lego figurine clutched tightly in Stan’s fingers. Stan needs him to move, to say something, _do_ something. As much as it pains Stan to do, he stops packing. He stands in front of Bill instead, grasping the other boy’s shoulder with his free hand, eyes serious and locked on his.

“I almost went in. I didn’t even know it. I thought I was still sitting on the park bench, and I almost went IN. I think It needs me to go in. If we stay here for another night, I won’t be able to stop myself and I don’t know why. I’m asking you to get me out of here. Save me.” The words are hard for Stan to even say, his pride making him force the request past a lump in his throat. They’re enough to get Bill’s attention though, his shaking hand reaching to take the turtle away from Stan.

“I wuh-won’t let the Luh-Lights get you.” There’s a new determination to Bill’s voice as he starts to load his art supplies and notebooks into a duffel. This time, Stan is the one shocked into motionlessness.

“You saw them too?” Something deep within him almost feels _betrayed_ by that, like the entire morbid performance had been something personal and only meant for him. He forces the thought away.

“No. B-but I know. The tuh-turtles, your sweater, the buh-bench… i c-can’t explain it.” Stan huffs a little, shaking his head, starting to zip their filled bags as best he can.

“I’m so fucking tired of things that can’t be explained. Can we just go?” Bill seems to agree, lifting most of their bags himself, leaving the lighter ones for Stan. Neither of them is willing to make more than one trip right now, and Stan has never been so happy to have so little. He can feel It creeping closer as they hastily shove their bags into Bill’s car, though part of him is almost sure that It can’t kill him. Not out here, not now. A slow, lazy helium balloon floats up from the end of their street, followed by another. He wants to scream, wants to tell Bill about them, but he knows that Bill won’t see. This nightmare is only for him.

Stan doesn’t realize that he’s been staring into the distance until he feels a pressure on his shoulder, body going rigid, eyes immediately flying to what he half expects to be the Clown. Bill is there instead, shoving on Stan’s shoulder, a tremble in his voice as he tries to speak.

“Guh-g-get in the c-c…” Bill makes a frustrated sound and pushes again. Stan almost collapses into the seat. Bill is **scared**. He isn’t sure why, and he knows that Bill isn’t seeing what he’s seeing. But Bill believes him, knows that It’s there just on the basis that Stan does. It should make Stan feel more secure, but it doesn’t. He hears Bill get in, the car starting, going far faster than it should right away. Outrunning the Devil, just the way Stan had asked him to. He can’t help but spare a glance back behind them, needing to see what’s there, if there’s something behind them _gaining_...

“Don’t l-look.” Bill’s voice is a plea and a command at the same time. “Just stay h-here with me. Don’t g-get lost. I wuh-won’t let you get lost this tuh-time, I _swear_...” Stan reaches out to squeeze Bill’s thigh, the tension in the muscle almost a shock to him. 

“I know, Bill. I trust you. You can do this, I…” Tearing his eyes away from the potential danger in the rearview is the hardest thing Stan has ever done. He forces himself to focus on Bill’s face instead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I’m not looking at It. It’s just you and me, and you’re getting us out of here. You’ve done it before, I know you can do it again. I believe in you.” He forces himself not to know that there’s something behind them. He steadfastly remains locked on Bill instead, trying to block everything else out, trying to load his entire sense memory with the scared determination on Bill’s face, the heat of his thigh beneath Stan’s fingers, the harsh sounds of his breath as he navigates toward the city limit. The car bounces over the train tracks at the edge of town, the car skidding from the excess speed hard enough to knock over the “you are now leaving Derry!” sign. They drive over it with the distinct pop of balloons beneath their tires, and Bill almost chokes.

“Wuh-was that…?”

“It can’t be. It’s too early. Only I can see It now.” Stan isn’t sure whether the edge in his voice is possessive or isolated. They’re not in Derry anymore. Whatever had been behind them recedes in the distance as they speed away. He can breathe. “Those were probably real balloons. A prank by someone who saw it before we…” He’s not sure what to say in this situation. Killed it? Scared it off? “Before It left. I don’t think It can really come out yet.”

Bill clearly has questions he’s not asking. Stan knows without hearing them that he wouldn’t know how to answer any of them.

“D-do you think whatever that was w-will come for Mike?” Stan winces a little at the thought of Mike. The only loser left in Derry, friendless and alone. Was he in danger just by being left there?

“No. I don’t think it can. He didn’t see the Lights. I think seeing them changes something somehow.” Stan sighs and leans over the center console of Bill’s car, rests his head on Bill’s shoulder. For the first time in days, he feels safe. “He’ll be hurt that we left early, though. And pissed, probably. Next time we stop for gas, we’ll call?” Bill kisses the top of Stan’s head with a sigh.

“H-he’ll understand. He cuh-cares about you.” Stan just hums in agreement, breathing deep. Every mile further away from Derry makes it easier to breathe, makes the pain fade. The fear, the numbness, the Lights… all of it dissipates into the air, loosening its grip on him with every mile Bill puts between them and the danger. All he has left is exhaustion, his body limp and tired, a bone-deep weariness overtaking his mind. He allows his eyes to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two things.
> 
> 1\. This fic has one more chapter before it ends.  
> 2\. Planning on making this into a series. I know people hate commenting (though I'm crazy grateful for those who do it anyway), but if you'd be interested in seeing a part 2 continuation of this in the college-adulthood years, just throw a "yes" in the comment box so I know you're still there.


	25. Twenty-Four

Bill stands at a phone booth in a truck stop somewhere in Pennsylvania, solemnly holding a payphone that he hasn’t yet dialed. He’s not sure what he’ll say when he does, but he still knows he can’t avoid it forever. He’d managed to put it off for nearly 10 hours already, Stan sleeping off most of the trip curled against Bill’s arm, Bill not wanting to wake him now that he’d actually seemed peaceful. Bill had been worried that Stan would wake up thinking about the Clown, but the other boy had just begun mumbling about being dirty and sweaty and _itchy_ until Bill had found a suitable place for them to stop - nothing special, but they’d had a warm shower, food, and somewhere to refuel. And a phone that Bill continues to clutch in his hand.

Mike had been the only Loser left in Derry besides the two of them, the others already headed off to colleges of their choice in the week prior. They’d been Mike’s last friends left, and they hadn’t said goodbye to him. It sounds like such a little thing, but it isn’t. Not to Bill, and he knows not to Mike either. Not with Mike already feeling left behind, agreeing to lock himself into a town full of racists and a farm that he despised so the rest of them could all go follow their dreams. Derry was probably least safe for him in Its off-season, even with Butch Bowers dead and Henry institutionalized, and they’d all been selfish enough to leave him there anyway. More focused on their own futures away from that town, willing to let Mike’s poverty decide for them. He dials.

“Hello?” Mike sounds anxious but still firmly in control. Bill can tell that he knows something has happened.

“Mike.” It’s the only word Bill knows he can get out without stuttering right now. Mike had always been stronger than him, and he’d never realized how much he’d leaned on that strength even as he was jealous of it.

“I went by your place and it was trashed. What the fuck happened?” Mike isn’t angry, at least not yet, but Bill knows he will be.

“Stuh-Stan had a nervous b-breakdown.” The words feel rotten on Bill’s tongue. He’s not quite sure if they’re true, or if he’s already lost his ability to see It. “I caught him truh-trying to go into the Standpipe. Alone. Then he stuh-started screaming about nee-needing to get out of town, that It was fuh-following him. He suh-said he wouldn’t survive in t-town with the hallucinations. I think was g-going to hurt himself.” He doesn’t want to continue, but he knows he has to. There’s no hiding this. “We’re in Puh-Pennsylvania.”

“Is Stan okay?” Mike’s voice is clipped, icy. He’s clearly angry that they’re gone, but his hurt still won’t stop him from being concerned for his friend. Bill looks down.

“Yeah. buh-better now.” The silence is awkward and tense, stretches out. It’s broken moments later as the phone asks for more change, and Bill quickly raises his hand to put another quarter in the phone booth before it hangs up his call. “I’m sorry. I j-just couldn’t let him g-get taken too.”

“If It really was back, It would’ve taken everybody else here. Including me. Fuck, there’s a risk of It taking him when you all come back when you’re 40 anyway. Are you just going to fuck off and turn your back on It then, too? Decide It’s somebody else’s problem to deal with?” On the surface, it’s little more than a lecture about responsibilities. But Bill has gotten to know Mike well, perhaps better than any of the others had. He’s learned how to read between the lines. And right now, as much as Mike is trying to hide it behind an excuse of being worried about their return in 2015, he isn’t. He’s hurt that they’d left him behind, that they hadn’t even come by the farm to warn him of the possible threat on their way out of town. He and Mike both know that It isn’t really there now, but Bill had already shown his bias. Had made it clear he’d prioritize Stan’s safety over Mike’s in a time of danger. There’s no going back from that, no apology Bill can make that would bring he and Mike back to the trust level that they’d once shared. 

“I wo-wouldn’t have left you i-if there was really s-so-something.” Bill means it, even as he knows that Mike won’t believe him. “It wuh-was all in his head. But I cuh-can’t lose him to his mind, Mike. I luh-love him.” It’s the first time Bill has said those words out loud, but he can’t spend his time basking in how _right_ the phrase had sounded. Not now. The line goes deathly quiet. “M-Mike?” A sigh.

“This is gonna be the last time you call me. So we’re not fighting. Tell Stan I hope he’s okay. Good luck out west.” Bill shakes his head emphatically.

“N-no! I have a fuh-phone card already to call ev-everyone. We’ll tuh-talk again next week, I pruh-promise!” There’s a hint of desperation in Bill’s voice. Part of him knows they’re not talking next week.

“Sure. Goodbye, Bill.” Mike obviously doesn’t believe him. The machine once again tells him to insert more change. As he fumbles for another quarter, the call disconnects.

*

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive for a while?” They’re somewhere in Ohio when Stan asks. He’s curled as comfortably as he can be in the passenger seat, one of Bill’s flannels pulled over himself like a blanket to protect from the brisk night air. Bill knows how adorable the sight should be, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“No, that’s o-okay. I’ve got it.” If Bill’s being honest with himself, he can’t let Stan drive. Not now. The adrenaline of their escape had worn off sometime after his call with Mike, had left Bill feeling out of control. He needs to be the one driving this car, couldn’t handle just sitting passively and letting himself be moved. All of the realities he’s tried so hard to avoid for months flash through his mind. He’s never going to call Mike. The letters to Beverly have already waned down to nearly nothing, and those will go away completely now. He’s not sure he and Ben had even remembered to exchange addresses. Eddie’s mother wouldn’t let him answer the phone even if they DID try to call him in New York, and Richie… Richie was just gone. From the moment that Eddie had backed out of risking California with him for the security of New York with his mother and aunt, they’d lost Richie to the lights and drugs and anonymity of Hollywood. Not even Stan would hear from Richie again. For the next 23 years, Bill’s Lucky Seven had become just him and Stan. That is, If he could manage to keep Stan by his side. He grips the wheel tighter, keenly aware that Stan is watching him. One of Stanley’s hands peeks out from beneath his flannel blanket, reaching over to carefully link his fingers with Bill’s on the steering wheel. It’s painfully awkward in that charming way that every show of affection from Stan is. Bill can’t help but love it.

“So… Cat or dog?” The question is more than a little random, and that alone is enough to tear Bill out of his thoughts.

“Fuh-for what?” Stan’s lips twist in amusement.

“Oh, nothing important. Was just feeling a little bit hungry and thought we could stop for a bite.” Bill’s jaw twitches, but he can’t hold back the smile at Stan’s horrible joke. “For when we can move out of the dorms. I know that’s at least a year away, but I was thinking that we could celebrate by buying a small animal. Hence the question, dog or cat?” Bill knows Stan well enough to understand this for the distraction technique it clearly is, but it’s also much more than that. Stan is talking about their future - albeit in a way that is more than a little bit shallow, but at least he’s trying. He pushes the sadness over their friends out of his mind for now - he can’t change that, can’t fix it. But he can make sure he doesn’t lose Stan, too.

“Wuh-we should get a puppy. Huh-he’ll be cute and f-full of energy. Our luh-little ball of sunshine.” Stan makes a dismayed chuffing sound, and Bill smiles at the rant he knows is coming.

“You mean rambunctious and precocious and needy? I have you for that, Billy. Try again.” Bill makes a big show of thinking about it.

“Hmm… He’ll be thuh-there for me to snuggle while y-you’re at work. So I won’t h-have to bug you for cuh-cuddles as soon as you get home.” Stan’s nose scrunches.

“Even worse argument! It’s like you don’t even want a dog at all.” Bill laughs breathlessly, then carefully brings Stan’s hand up to his mouth, kissing the top of it, moving his own back to the wheel right after. Stan’s stays at Bill’s face, tracing his jawline back to his neck and shoulders, rubbing and squeezing the tension out of his skin. 

“How d-do you always know what I need?” Bill isn’t really expecting an answer to that, but he isn’t at all upset when he gets one anyway.

“The same way you know what I need. Besides, I’m just stacking up good boyfriend points now to cash in when we get home and start trying to organize our things.” _Home_ , Bill’s mind repeats. _Our things_. It seems so meager compared to everything they’re losing, but the sound of Stan talking about their future together still makes him feel optimistic. He may be losing everything else, but Stan will still be here with him. It may not be everything he could ask for, not what the normal kids from the normal towns get. But those normal kids don’t end up with anything nearly as deep as what he has with Stan.

In spite of everything, it’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you guys for sticking with me and for all of your lovely yesses! Even just that helps me know that I'm not just screaming into the void here.  
> 2\. If you haven't noticed, this has been made a series and the first chapter of Part 2 is going up now. So anyone interested can just click on over there without having to search it out.


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